


High Stakes

by tinzelda



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 00:32:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the canon story "A Study in Scarlet." Holmes and Watson meet, move into their rooms on Baker Street, and solve their first case together. (No spoilers though - I don't reveal the solution to the original story's mystery.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	High Stakes

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand heartfelt thank yous to charlotteyonge , my wonderful and brilliant beta for this story. She gave a very thorough read to this long story not once but twice, gave me tons of ideas about how to make the story better, AND came up with the title. All of this while feeding me plenty of encouragement to keep me going. Thank you, my dear! This story is much improved because of your inspired suggestions, and I adored working with you. Also, thank you to gmplatypus, who a million years ago when I started this story answered a bunch of questions about various Victorian matters.

George Stamford grated on Holmes’ nerves. He was the kind of fellow who seems happy all the time, not because he has any reason to be happy, but simply because he knows no better. When Stamford first blustered into the lab, Holmes was too absorbed in his work to listen to the man, much less answer, but upon hearing Stamford introduce his friend as a doctor became more interested. Stamford might be a medical man, but he was a simpleton—incapable of understanding Holmes’ work—but this Dr. Watson might be something altogether different.

Holmes studied Stamford’s companion. From his banker’s collar to his worn but perfectly polished shoes, Dr. Watson was the picture of respectability. He was rather thin and tanned, and he leaned heavily on a black wooden walking stick. His carefully brushed hat proved that he was usually fastidious in his personal habits, but he was gripping it too tightly at the moment, unaware of how he was crushing the brim out of shape.

Holmes reached out to shake hands. “You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.”

Dr. Watson was obviously still recovering from his war wounds and whatever fever had complicated his convalescence, but even so he was undeniably handsome. Perhaps his good looks might explain his successful passage through university and medical training. It was difficult to expect that the man would be particularly intelligent with the gaping astonishment written so plainly on his face.

He was a friend of Stamford’s, after all. He was most likely insufferably conventional and unimaginative as well. Holmes resigned himself to disappointment. He had so wished to be able to explain his experiment to an appreciative audience, but it seemed the good doctor would not provide that satisfaction.

Then Watson recovered, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How on earth did you know that?” he asked. Once the dumbfounded shock was gone from Dr. Watson’s face, Holmes found it easier to hope that he might turn out to be clever.

“Never mind,” Holmes said, manufacturing a polite smile. “The question now is about haemoglobin.”

“Haemoglobin.” Dr. Watson repeated.

“Yes, I have found a reagent which is precipitated by haemoglobin, and by nothing else.”

The skepticism that clouded Watson’s features made Holmes more optimistic. The good doctor knew enough to be doubtful, so perhaps he would understand enough to be impressed.

“I will demonstrate. Let us have some fresh blood.” With a dramatic flourish, Holmes picked up a knife from the laboratory table and pricked his finger. He drew the bead of blood up into a pipette. “Now, I add this small quantity of blood to a liter of water. You perceive that the resulting mixture has the appearance of true water. The proportion of blood can be no more than one in a million. I have no doubt, however, that we shall be able to obtain the characteristic reaction.”

Watching Watson to gauge his response, Holmes added his chemicals to the water, and Watson’s eyebrows slid upwards as the solution turned brown.

“What do you think of that?” Holmes asked.

“That’s marvelous. It seems to be a very delicate test.”

Holmes allowed himself a smug little smile. “The old guaiacum test was very clumsy and uncertain. So is the microscopic examination for blood corpuscles. I believe this will be a vast improvement.”

“Must the blood be freshly drawn?” Watson asked.

Holmes felt a pulse of excitement at Watson’s query. “That’s why my test is so innovative. Many of the old methods are valueless if the stains are a few hours old. This appears to act equally well whether the blood is new or old. ”

Watson walked over and picked up the jar, swirling its contents to study the grains that had precipitated at the bottom. “It is necessary to dilute the blood in water? Or could the solution be directly applied to blood stains?”

Again, Holmes was delighted. Before he could even answer, Watson was taking the next mental step.

“But it would be much more difficult to see, wouldn’t it?” Watson said. His gaze wandered about the laboratory as he considered the matter. Holmes watched with approval. “But could one soak the clothing in water? If the test is as sensitive as it appears, even a tiny amount of dried blood should be enough to cause the color change, if it floated free from the fabric into the water.”

“Indeed,” Holmes answered, still observing Watson’s face.

Stamford cleared his throat. “This is all very interesting, I’m sure, but—”

“Interesting?” Holmes scoffed. “It’s much more than ‘interesting,’ I assure you.”

Stamford frowned and looked at his feet.

Holmes glanced at Watson, wondering if he might have offended him by speaking in such a manner to his friend, but there was a hint of a smile on Watson’s face, a gleam in his eye that Holmes was certain he understood: Watson’s regard for Stamford was no higher than his own. For moment Watson and Holmes looked at one another, not speaking. Watson’s expression turned questioning, and Holmes realised that he was staring. He started to turn away, but Watson reached out and touched Holmes’ wrist.

“Mr. Holmes,” he said. “Your finger. Would you allow me…?” He gestured at some plaster sitting on the table. After Holmes nodded agreement, Watson neatly bandaged where Holmes had cut himself. Then he turned Holmes’ arm, studying the older cuts and bruises, the stains, and the various scars.

Holmes pulled his hand away. “I work with chemicals and poisons a great deal,” he said and then was annoyed that he felt the need to explain.

Dr. Watson nodded and said, “All the more reason to take care.”

This rebuke irritated Holmes all the more. He wanted to make his displeasure clear but found he had no idea of what to say, which exasperated him further. He could feel Watson’s eyes still on him. At that moment Stamford interrupted again, and for the first time Holmes was glad of the stupid fellow’s presence.

“We came here on business,” said Stamford. “My friend here wants to take diggings, and as you were complaining that you could get no one to go halves with you, I thought that I had better bring you together. He wants to start a practice, and those rooms you found could easily be made to supply an office for old Watson here, don’t you think?”

Coming directly after Dr. Watson’s scolding, the idea of sharing lodgings did not seem an inviting one. Holmes looked at Watson, who was limping over to sit down on the three-legged stool Stamford offered him. It occurred to Holmes that it would be unwise to move in with a man still recuperating from such serious injuries, especially considering that Holmes was not at all familiar with Watson’s temperament. He might whine.

Holmes took a breath, prepared to lie, to explain how he had already found someone with whom to share the rooms in question, but then he caught Watson’s eye. Now that Watson was sitting comfortably, he was studying Holmes as closely as Holmes had been studying him. And the man had understood Holmes’ discovery, grasped its importance and potential uses so quickly. He had been appropriately impressed and asked such marvelous questions.

Holmes was certain that this man was more than he appeared to be. Several moments passed while Holmes and Watson eyed each other, and then Watson smiled with an innocent kind of hopefulness, an openness that melted Holmes’ resolve.

Holmes heard himself agreeing to everything. He was appalled at the words that fell out of his mouth, chattering on and on. He was downright jolly. Dr. Watson seemed to find it charming—he smiled again and seemed relieved, answering Holmes’ questions, his manner much more relaxed than when he had entered the room.

After arranging to meet and view their potential rooms on the morrow, Dr. Watson walked out of the laboratory with Stamford. Watson’s polite behaviour while taking leave bothered Holmes. The empty pleasantries seemed more irksome now that Holmes knew Watson had both intelligence and curiosity. Watson was not the kind of man who should be socializing with Stamford and making a living from hypochondriac matrons. Holmes was certain of that.

*****

Watson spent a long night worrying over his decision before it was time to meet Holmes and inspect the rooms at Baker Street. His anxiety made him set out sooner than necessary, and he arrived much too early for the appointment. He did not want to have to wait, standing stupidly by until Holmes arrived, so he slowed his pace.

As he approached the door, studying the front of the building, he saw a woman’s face in a second story window. Watson worried it might appear suspicious if he loitered by the door, so he climbed the steps and knocked immediately. A moment later the door was opened by a middle-aged woman wearing a dark-grey dress and a forbidding expression. Watson could not tell whether she might be in half-mourning or simply favoured sombre colors.

Once Watson introduced himself, the woman explained that she was Mrs. Hudson, his prospective landlady, and her manner became pleasant and open. She led him up the stairs, walking at just the right pace—he could keep up with her easily but did not feel he was being treated as an invalid. He liked her immediately.

The rooms seemed very comfortable. There was a large sitting room with broad windows and more than adequate furnishings. Watson thought that the adjoining study might be ideal for his consulting room, although he would, of course, discuss the subject with Mr. Holmes before making any plans. Mrs. Hudson was ready to lead Watson up to see the bedrooms when they were interrupted by a knock at the door.

Watson would have liked to join Mrs. Hudson and greet Holmes at the door, but he did not wish to tackle that long flight of stairs again, not when there was still the upper story to be seen. Instead, Watson remained on the landing. The moment Holmes stepped inside he glanced up at Watson before turning his attention to Mrs. Hudson. He greeted her in a most gentlemanlike manner and then was up the stairs with enviable speed, shaking Watson’s hand and pulling him into the sitting room.

“This is ideal, don’t you think?” Holmes said as he spun around in the center of the floor. “Plenty of room for my books.”

Watson nodded, unable to think of anything to say.

Holmes strode across to the windows to look out over the street. “Yes, I think this will do nicely.”

Mrs. Hudson began to explain her preferences regarding mealtimes and visitors, but Watson found he could not follow. His attention was captured by Holmes as he explored the room. Holmes circled in an almost frenetic manner, stopping to look at one thing for only a moment before spying something else that interested him and moving away. He slid open the pocket doors to the study, then turned to look at Watson.

“Your surgery?” Holmes said with a small smile.

Watson was pleased that their thoughts coincided so well. He stammered the beginning of a reply, but Holmes disappeared through the doors, so Watson gave up the attempt. Then Watson heard Holmes’ voice from the hall.

“Shall we see the bedchambers?”

Holmes did not wait for Mrs. Hudson to usher him upstairs but trotted up ahead of her. Watson followed more slowly and reached the landing in time to hear Holmes’ expressions of satisfaction and Mrs. Hudson’s attempts to explain the laundry service. Watson thought Holmes was not giving the poor woman the attention she deserved but was feeling rather overwhelmed. Rather than join them, he stepped into the other bedroom, which was simply furnished but clean, airy, and quiet. Watson could imagine himself there.

Holmes’ voice at his shoulder, though quiet, made Watson start. “What do you think, Dr. Watson? Will it serve?”

Watson turned to look at Holmes, whose brows were raised, questioning.

“It seems perfectly comfortable,” Watson said, unwilling to commit himself quite yet.

“I rather doubt we can find anything else to suit us so well,” Holmes declared, touching Watson’s elbow. “Shall we tell Mrs. Hudson?”

Holmes’ words made it seem that the appropriateness of the rooms was the only thing in question rather than whether the two of them were well-matched to share a home. Watson found this reassuring, as if he himself had already been approved.

“Yes,” Watson answered. “Yes, let’s.”

Holmes looked pleased. “Wonderful. I shall move in tomorrow.”

“If it’s acceptable to Mrs. Hudson, I’ll come tonight. I won’t pay for another night at the hotel when I can be more comfortable here.”

Holmes did not answer. His hand tightened on Watson’s arm, and then he was down the stairs. Watson heard the front door closing behind him. It was not until Mrs. Hudson spoke that Watson realised Holmes had left him to handle all of the arrangements with their landlady, but Watson did not truly mind. It took very little discussion to agree to Mrs. Hudson’s reasonable terms, and within a half hour Watson was on his way to his hotel to pack his things.

*****

When Watson returned that evening with his few possessions, he was greeted warmly by Mrs. Hudson, who hired a boy to carry his things up the stairs. After she saw him settled, Mrs. Hudson withdrew, and Watson was left alone. He tucked away his clothes in the smaller of the two bedrooms—he did not require any more space than it provided, and he wanted to do well by Holmes, leaving the larger room for him.

Once the room was arranged to his satisfaction, Watson had nothing to do. He found himself wishing that Mr. Holmes were also coming that night. The clatter of wheels sounded in the alley behind the house as if in response to the thought. Perhaps Holmes had decided to move his things that night after all.

Watson went to the window and saw a wagon painted to advertise the services of a Mr. Simpson of Guilford Street. The driver climbed down and pulled a shovel out from under his seat: a coal delivery. Watson was surprised at his disappointment. He fell onto the bed, trying to remember what time Mrs. Hudson had said she would bring his supper tray.

*****

Late the following morning, Watson was lying on the sofa staring at the ceiling when Mr. Holmes finally arrived. Watson went to the front window and saw Holmes standing in the street behind a cart laden with a large pile of boxes and portmanteaus. He was directing the driver and several unkempt boys as they unloaded the baggage.

Holmes suddenly looked up, and Watson started. He felt himself flush and moved away from the window, though he had no reason to think Holmes had been able to see him. After taking a moment to compose himself, Watson went to open the sitting room door and met Holmes on the landing.

“Welcome home,” Watson said quietly, cursing the blush he could feel returning to his cheeks and neck.

“Thank you, Dr. Watson,” Holmes answered. He stepped close so that the boys could move behind him, carrying the boxes into the sitting room. “I trust your first night here was a pleasant one?”

“Indeed.” Feeling Holmes’ gaze fixed on him, Watson struggled to find words. “Mrs. Hudson served a fine supper.”

“Very good,” Holmes said, then turned to the cart driver, who had just reached the landing toting a large trunk. “That one is for the bedroom, up those stairs.”

The man nodded, and Holmes and Watson both stepped into the doorway of the study so that he might pass by. Holmes’ eyes swept over the room.

“You have begun to set up your practice, I see.”

“Yes, I—” Watson had a moment of worry. “I hope that is acceptable to you. We only vaguely discussed—”

“Of course,” Holmes interrupted.

An alarming crash from the sitting room drew Holmes away in a rush. A moment later Watson heard his voice, intense and stern, but the reprimand was mild, perhaps less than was deserved for such carelessness, and when all of the boxes had been carried in, Watson was surprised at the generous payment Holmes slipped to the boys as he dismissed them.

Watson moved awkwardly about the rooms, unable to keep still yet not wanting to hinder Holmes as he arranged his things. It took him considerably longer to unpack than it had Watson. In fact, there were several boxes that Holmes did not open at all, leaving them in a stack in his room on the far side of his bed.

Watson was in the sitting room with the newspaper after supper when Holmes began to open the many boxes there, pulling out his chemical equipment with careful attention. The variety of contraptions and containers was daunting, and Watson watched Holmes’ progress in silence.

When Holmes had finished, he approached and threw himself into the chair next to Watson’s with a sigh. Watson cleared his throat. “Are you all settled then?”

Holmes looked mildly surprised when Watson spoke, as if he had forgotten the room was occupied by more than just furniture. “Why, yes. I may need to rearrange a bit, but for now…”

Watson could not think of a reply. He watched Holmes out of the corner of his eye. Holmes was staring up at the ceiling. 

There were several moments of silence.

“Do you care for music?” Holmes asked. “The violin, to be precise.”

“It depends on the player,” Watson answered, uncertain whether Holmes was a musician himself or inviting him to a concert.

Holmes hopped up from his chair and fetched a case from the other side of the room. He extracted the instrument gently and tucked it under his chin. The first few notes did not seem melodic to Watson’s ear, but he never considered himself to be musical. At any rate, even if Holmes’ playing was mediocre, the noise would at least prevent the discomfort of having nothing to say to one another.

After a few moments’ attention to tuning the violin, Holmes began to play in earnest. He dashed off a few simple pieces and then just as easily played some Mendelssohn at Watson’s request. It was remarkable. Holmes’ playing was masterful, seemingly effortless, and Watson listened in rapt silence until they were both ready to retire.

*****

The first few weeks of their shared domesticity were foggy for Watson. He had thought he was almost completely recovered but now found himself sleeping at odd hours of the day, still a convalescent. He rarely saw his fellow lodger. Watson would wake late in the morning, and Mr. Holmes would already be out for the day, or Watson would nap in the afternoon and later learn from Mrs. Hudson that Holmes had returned home briefly and gone directly out again. Never had Watson known anyone with such an irregular schedule. Even after some weeks of living at Baker Street, Watson was not any better acquainted with Holmes and did not feel at home in the slightest.

The sitting room was to be shared, but Holmes every so often asked Watson, most politely, if he would mind vacating the room. He said he needed to see clients, although he did not explain the nature of his profession. Watson found this intriguing. Through Holmes’ use of the room for business, as well as Watson’s timidity—Holmes always looked up so very quickly every time Watson opened the door—the sitting room became, by default, Holmes’ domain. Even in his own bedroom, Watson felt like a visitor, houseguest to the world’s most inattentive host.

By chance one evening Watson opened his study door just as Mrs. Hudson reached the landing with supper. He pushed the sitting room door open for her, and Holmes smiled in such a way that Watson for once did not feel like an intruder. Once the meal was nicely laid out, Mrs. Hudson left the room with a fond look at Watson. He could not help but wish she would stay. Seated at the table across from Holmes, feeling his hawklike gaze, Watson had to force himself not to fidget. He cast about for a likely topic of conversation, saw the newspaper, and seized on the headline in desperation.

“Did you read that the House of—”

“I don’t follow politics,” Holmes said, his voice fairly dripping with disdain. His tone made Watson feel ridiculous for attempting to address the topic. Indeed, he felt rather afraid to speak to Holmes at all, but the silence was oppressive. His eye happened upon the settee, where earlier in the day he had abandoned his book.

“I’ve been reading Carlyle’s _On Heroes_. Do you know it?”

Holmes looked up from his plate, and for a moment Watson thought he detected a hint of interest, but Holmes merely shook his head and took another bite of beef. Watson’s discomfort turned to annoyance. He could not understand why Holmes refused to make the slightest effort at polite dinner conversation.

If politics and books were not worthy of his notice, perhaps something akin to the realm of science would spark Holmes’ interest. Watson knew little of chemistry, and he had no wish to discuss medicine over a meal, but he had recently read of the most peculiar phenomenon and thought it might divert Holmes, who was now sitting with his head bowed, looking at his plate.

“Did you see the piece in the paper about angel hair?” Watson offered. He watched Holmes carefully to see how he would react.

Holmes moved only his head, which rose just enough for him to look at Watson under lowered brows. “You do not strike me as the religious sort, Dr. Watson.”

Watson laughed. “Not at all, but that’s what people called it. A strange substance falling from the sky.”

Holmes’ expression was unreadable, but if he was not interested at least he did not immediately dismiss the topic. Watson soldiered on.

“It was in the States, in Wisconsin, I believe. Silky strands falling from the sky. Like spiderwebs. Some very small, others more than sixty feet long. They drifted in from Lake Michigan, it seems, and fell on the nearby towns.”

Now there was a definite light of curiosity in Holmes’ eyes. “The substance was like spiderwebs, you say? There are some breeds of spiders who will spin a web and use it as a kind of sail to—”

“Yes, but not a single spider was seen,” Watson said.

Watson could see a small smile forming on Holmes’ face—he was enjoying this puzzle.

“A factory,” Holmes suggested. “A factory spinning silk or some other delicate thread.”

Watson shook his head. “Nothing of the sort nearby.”

“Perhaps the strands were caught in some kind of weather system. There’s no reason to assume their origin must be close.”

“Perhaps,” Watson conceded. “But the strands disappeared when they were touched, vanished into nothing. Not even the finest silk would simply disappear, and spider webs stick like glue.”

“Where is the newspaper?” Holmes asked, rising from his chair.

“I don’t know,” Watson said, pleased that Holmes had become so very interested in this strange little tale.

“I want to see it.”

“I could find it for you,” Watson offered, but he did not get out of his seat.

“I would be most appreciative,” Holmes replied. He stared at Watson, then seemed to realise that Watson had no intention of searching for the paper at that exact moment. “Ah,” he said. He returned to his chair.

Watson smiled. “So you see why the good people of Wisconsin are calling it angel hair,” he said. “There seems to be no rational explanation.”

Holmes exhaled in a huff. “Of course there’s a rational explanation.”

Watson picked up his knife, but he did not have time for so much as one bite before Holmes said, “Do you mean to tell me they never did come to understand the origins of the angel hair?”

“I’m afraid not,” Watson replied.

Holmes muttered something about the newspaper.

“As I said, I’ll be happy to find it for you, but I believe I’ve given you all the details.”

Holmes scowled.

“It may have to remain a mystery,” Watson said, trying to dismiss the topic, but his words only made Holmes’ frown deepen. Immediately after supper, Watson found the paper. Holmes read it and tossed it aside in disgust, turning instead to his violin.

Watson recognised most of the music at first, although he could not have identified the pieces by name, but then Holmes drifted away from the familiar melodies, seeming to extemporise as he played. It was unusual but not unpleasant, and Watson dozed in his armchair as he listened. Holmes woke him with a gentle poke of his bow.

“My musical eccentricities don’t disturb you?”

“On the contrary,” Watson said, sitting up straighter and pulling at his waistcoat. Falling asleep unexpectedly had made him feel disordered. He cleared his throat. “They were rather soothing.”

“I’m relieved to hear it.” A hint of a smile played at the corner of Holmes’ mouth. “Now I am going out. Perhaps it’s time for you to retire.”

“Out? Now? It must be after midnight.”

“Indeed, it’s almost one. But go out I must.”

Watson opened his mouth to ask why, but when he looked up and saw Holmes’ expression, eyebrows raised and mouth twitching into a smirk, he instead smiled a polite smile and said nothing. Holmes’ face shifted, slipping back into neutrality so quickly Watson wondered whether he had imagined the amusement. He wished Watson a good night as he left the room.

As Watson prepared for bed, he pondered over their dinner conversation and the few other clues he had as to Holmes temperament and occupation. It occurred to him again that Holmes must be teasing for some reason about his ignorance on certain topics, but Watson could not think why he would bother. Perhaps he simply did not want to engage in conversation and was using this as a tactic for driving Watson away. And why was Holmes so reticent about his profession? So many men could not stop talking about their work, but Holmes seemed determined to keep his a secret.

Watson thought about the clients that had come to Baker Street. Stamford had insisted that Holmes was not a medical student, but these visitors could be some kind of patients. Could Holmes be using his knowledge of chemistry to dose these people with medicines of his own invention? The doctor in Watson was angered at the idea, and it seemed very unlikely. Holmes was dedicated to his experiments, of course, but the few times he discussed them with Watson he made that pursuit seem more theoretical than practical.

Or perhaps the visitors suffered from mental disorders—more and more men claiming to treat hysteria, melancholia, and the like were hanging out their shingles. Watson had glimpsed some of Holmes’ clientele through the study window, but the people were too varied to provide any clue as to their errands.

Watson remembered Stamford saying he had seen Holmes beating the subjects in the dissecting rooms. The thought made Watson shudder, and he could not for the life of him think of any way to connect such behaviour to the man that had been sitting at the supper table. It was monstrous. What could possibly be gained from such an exercise? Watson wondered if he should be concerned about the character of the people Holmes was allowing into the house. Was it possible that he was involved in some kind of illegal activity?

The parade of strangers coming to the house was not the only peculiarity that seemed cause for concern. One afternoon Watson returned from a walk to find seemingly every table in the house pushed together in the sitting room to make a large, uneven surface on which was balanced a startling display of Holmes’ chemical instruments, all linked together and leaking a variety of liquids.

Holmes was agitated, rattling on about precipitates, and seemed merely puzzled when Watson pointed out the spot on the rug, as big as a splayed hand, where some chemical had bleached out the colors. It did not seem to occur to Holmes that their landlady would not appreciate the damage to her carpet, and Watson looked heavenward, exasperated, only to see a corresponding dark stain on the ceiling.

However damaging to Mrs. Hudson’s furnishings, Watson preferred those days when Holmes was occupied to those when he sank into lethargy. There was one three-day period when Watson was certain Holmes did not rise once from the sofa in the sitting room, and not a single crumb of nourishment passed through his lips.

Perhaps Holmes was ill, Watson thought, or prey to an insurmountable fit of melancholy himself. Watson was sitting at his desk, gathering the courage to approach and express his concern when he heard movement in the sitting room.

He went next door to find Holmes grabbing various papers from the untidy stacks strewn about the room and stuffing them into a satchel. When Watson entered, Holmes greeted him cheerfully, his eyes bright and his manner energetic, as if he were a different man. Holmes seemed to think his behaviour for the several days preceding required no explanation, and Watson did not wish to raise a potentially sore subject.

When Watson had moved to Baker Street, he had thought it might be interesting to study Holmes’ character, but he had grossly underestimated the effort that would be required to figure out even the smallest part of it. Now Watson felt himself to be ridiculous, as nosy as a busybody old lady—obsessed with another man’s affairs but too cowardly to come right out and ask a simple question.

*****

The clock had ticked past eleven and Holmes was still alone in the sitting room. Watson had been out all evening—surprising given that he seemed to leave the house only to purchase cigarettes and take the occasional walk. A noise on the stairs prompted Holmes to rise. He peeked out of the door and saw Watson climbing slowly and carefully in his stocking feet, carrying his boots in one hand.

His shirt was stained, his hat crooked. He smelled like a distillery. The odor was so strong it was overpowering even from where Holmes stood on the landing. _Good God_ , thought Holmes, delighted. _He’s drunk_.

“My dear Dr. Watson,” Holmes said quietly. “What are you doing?”

Watson looked up, surprised. Then he scowled. “Do you _never_ sleep?”

Holmes almost laughed. How marvelous to discover that Watson could be rude. And even better to see him looking so untidy. Holmes had wanted to rumple Watson up since the first time he saw him, with his crisp white collar and his perfectly trimmed moustache.

Watson was still squinting up toward Holmes and the bright light on the landing, his head tilted back. If he leaned back any farther, he would lose his footing on the steps. As pleased as Holmes was to see Watson fall off his pedestal, he did not relish the idea of watching him tumble down the stairs. Holmes came down to where Watson tottered and took his arm.

“Come on, old boy. Let’s get you to bed.”

Holmes escorted Watson up a few steps.

“But wait,” Watson said. His speech was slightly slurred. “You didn’t answer my question. Do you?”

“Do I what?”

Watson sighed and cast an annoyed glance in Holmes’ direction. “Do you sleep?”

“Of course. Come on then,” Holmes urged, but Watson had planted his feet.

“But when? When do you sleep? No matter how early I’m up in the morning, you’re already awake, and no matter how late I go to bed you’re still lurking down here in the sitting room.”

“Lurking?” Holmes could not remember the last time he had been so entertained.

“So when do you sleep? It’s not good for your health, Holmes. I am a doctor, after all.”

“You are,” Holmes agreed.

“I am,” Watson insisted. His footing faltered. His weight pressing on Holmes almost toppled them both down the steps. Holmes wrapped his arm around Watson’s torso, managing to get him almost upright. When they first met, Holmes could easily have picked Watson up and simply carried him, but in the intervening months he had lost his gauntness.

“And as a doctor, I can tell you,” Watson continued. “Sleep is important.”

“Yes, I agree. That is why we must get you to bed as soon as possible.”

“Bed,” Watson repeated. “Yes, bed.” He let himself be led up the next flight of stairs, leaning on Holmes heavily. Holmes felt the warmth of Watson’s body through the fabric of his shirt.

Holmes had not been present when Watson left the house and therefore did not know whether he had taken his overcoat, but he certainly had been wearing a waistcoat and a jacket. Watson was the sort man who would not so much as imagine walking around the streets of London half-dressed, at least when sober. Holmes wondered how Watson would react when he realised his clothes were missing.

They bumped into the bedroom door as Holmes dragged Watson the last few steps. “Lie down now,” Holmes ordered. “There’s a good lad.”

Watson fell back onto his bed, knocking off his hat in the process. It rolled to the floor, stopping against his right foot, which still dangled off the bed. Holmes bent to help lift Watson’s leg, but as soon as he moved it, Watson inhaled sharply. Holmes snatched his hands away as if burned and tried to apologise.

“No, no,” Watson said, wincing as he shifted his leg up onto the bed. The pain seemed to sober him a bit. “It… it aches sometimes.”

Holmes could plainly see that Watson was experiencing much more than an ache, but he saw no need to press the point. Watson’s hands came up to fumble at his shirt buttons, and Holmes turned to lower the light. Then sudden laughter startled Holmes, and he looked back at Watson, who was propped up on one elbow, staring down at his partially undone shirt.

“I’m too far gone to work a buttonhole,” Watson said, and he laughed again.

“Never mind,” Holmes whispered. He walked over to the bed and pressed gently on Watson’s shoulder to urge him to lie back. Instead, Watson swung his legs over the side and sat up. He took a deep breath and shook his head to clear it, then returned his attention to his shirt front. He managed to unfasten every button, but he had neglected to remove his cuffs, so when he tried to pull the shirt off, his arms tangled in the sleeves, making him laugh a third time.

Holmes rather liked this Watson who spoke rudely and laughed at his own drunken fumblings. After Watson disentangled himself from his shirt and vest and collapsed back on the bed, Holmes reached to pull the coverlet up. Then he waited a moment, listening to Watson’s breathing slow, until satisfied that he would sleep.

Turning to leave the room, Holmes was surprised by Watson reaching out to grab his arm. There were a few mumbled sentences, spoken too quietly to register, but Holmes caught the words “miserable” and “lost.” _Lost?_ Watson was intoxicated, but not so much so that he would forget the way to his new lodgings. Holmes decided that getting Watson to sleep was more important at that moment than understanding his alcohol-induced ramblings.

“Not to worry,” he said, pulling Watson’s hand off his wrist and patting it. “You’re not lost. You’re home now.”

“No,” Watson said. His voice was much louder now, and he was clearly frustrated. He threw the covers off and sat up on the edge of the bed. “ _I’m_ not lost. Don’t you see? I _lost_. I lost the rent money.”

Holmes immediately understood. “Cards?”

“Dice,” Watson answered, his shoulders slumping. Then he grabbed Holmes’ arm again, more tightly. “I was winning. It seemed I couldn’t lose! Enough to pay the rent for months. But then it all started to go wrong, I—” Watson looked up at Holmes, his eyes reflecting the lamplight. “I’m sorry. It’s all gone.”

Holmes was speechless. He was standing too close to the bed, too close to the bare skin of Watson’s chest. Holmes took a step back. “I understand. It’s easy to lose one’s head when one drinks too—”

“But I wasn’t drunk then! I—” Watson cut himself off, mashing his face between his hands. “I was just a fool. It wasn’t until _after_ , when I thought about coming home and having to tell you…” He looked back up at Holmes.

Holmes was struck dumb again. He was much too close to those pleading blue eyes. He cleared his throat. “Don’t worry, old boy,” Holmes whispered. “We’ll sort it out.” He placed a hand on Watson’s shoulder, but the flesh felt so warm under his fingers that he had to pull away. “Get to sleep now. It’ll all come clear in the morning.”

*****

Watson was awakened in the morning by noise in the alley. He heard all manner of thumps and clangs, which helped his splitting headache not at all, and then someone was singing at the top of his voice. Watson groaned. Once he was fully awake, he realised it must be a coal delivery. He could hear the metallic thunk of a shovel and the hollow thuds of the coal hitting the wooden sides of the shed.

_Simpson has some bloody nerve sending men at…_ Watson turned his head to look at the clock, wincing at the way it set his brain to throbbing. It was well after nine o’clock, not too early for a delivery. _But do they have to be so damned loud?_

Watson pulled the covers over his head and groaned again.

“Watson! You’re awake. Wonderful.”

Watson peeked out from under his blanket to see Holmes standing in the bedroom door. His first reaction was annoyance. _Does the man think it unnecessary to knock?_ Then Watson remembered what had transpired the night before and buried his head again. He had made a spectacle of himself. He did not want to face Holmes.

“I believe I may have figured a way out of our difficulties.”

Holmes threw open the curtains just as Watson emerged from under his blanket. Watson cried out at the bright light in his sensitive eyes and pulled a pillow over his face. 

“Have pity,” Watson begged.

“It’s a gorgeous day,” Holmes declared.

Watson heard the curtain rings at the other window sliding across the rod as Holmes opened the draperies there as well.

“I brought you some coffee,” Holmes said, and Watson could hear the amusement in his voice. Holmes was torturing him on purpose.

Watson sighed. It was no less than he deserved. Throwing the pillow off of his head, he dragged himself into a sitting position so that he could reach for the cup on the table beside his bed. The coffee was hot, strong, and very sweet. Watson gulped it as quickly as he could without burning his mouth.

His head felt even worse now that he was sitting up, but he was certain the coffee would help, so he fought the urge to slide back under the covers. After downing half the cup, Watson dared to look at Holmes, who was leaning against the bureau with his arms crossed, watching Watson with an absent smile on his face. When their eyes met, the smile grew, and Watson looked away, feeling himself flush.

It was unbearable to think of his chain of foolish decisions. Watson took a few more bracing sips before he glanced back at Holmes, whose smile was now positively devilish. He was relishing Watson’s discomfort.

Watson cleared his throat. “Are you going to tell me about this plan of yours?”

“Ah, yes!” Holmes face lit up, and he propelled himself away from the dresser and came to sit cross-legged on the bed at Watson’s feet. “I will simply have to earn the money.”

“Earn the money.”

“Yes.”

“Just like that?” Watson asked.

“Yes.”

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“Easily,” Holmes said, his head cocked to one side. “I simply have to take on a new case.”

“A case?” Watson felt suddenly alert.

“Yes.”

“What sort of a case?”

“Whatever sort is offered, I suppose. I never quite know what will arise next. You see, I am, by trade, a consulting detective, if you understand what that is.”

Watson digested this information. He would have thought it would have been more satisfying to learn the truth. “Do you mean you’re a policeman?”

Holmes’ expression turned scornful. “Nothing like a policeman! When the Yard is stumped they come to me, and I put them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence before me, and I am generally able to set them straight.”

“But not all of the people who’ve come to speak with you can be with the police,” Watson said, thinking of the variety of visitors that had come to their sitting room.

“No, some are sent by private inquiry agencies. I listen to their story, they listen to my comments, and then I pocket my fee.”

“But do you mean to say that you solve these cases? Without leaving the house? Just from what they come and tell you?”

Holmes smiled mischievously. “Now and again a case turns up which is a little more complex. Then I have to see things with my own eyes, but most often it isn’t necessary. Attention to detail is all that’s required. Remember when we met—how surprised you were when I told you that you had come from Afghanistan.”

“Stamford told you, no doubt.”

“On the contrary, I don’t believe he’d ever mentioned you,” Holmes said. “No, I learned everything I needed to know from our introduction and your appearance.”

Watson raised an eyebrow.

“Stamford introduced you as a doctor,” Holmes explained. “And you have an unmistakable military bearing. So it follows that you were an army surgeon. I noted the way you carried yourself, and it was obvious that you had been injured and then contracted some sort of illness, perhaps typhoid?”

“Wait, how—?”

Holmes did not let Watson’s words disrupt his explanation. “Your face was brown, but your wrists were pale, making it clear that your natural complexion was fair, and I understood that you must have been in a warmer, sunnier climate. Thus, Afghanistan.”

Watson was silent for a moment, considering Holmes’ explanation. “When you explain it like that, it seems so simple, but I still find it remarkable.”

Holmes looked pleased at the compliment. “So you see,” he said. “It shouldn’t be all that difficult for us earn back the money that’s been lost. We just need a likely case to present itself.”

Watson considered Holmes’ suggestion. “But even if you take a case and are able to solve it so quickly—”

Holmes let out an indignant huff. “Of course I’ll be able—”

“Well, and if you are,” Watson interrupted, “That gives you money to pay Mrs. Hudson, but it doesn’t help me. I won’t have my half of the money, and I’ll still owe you for your share of the money that I lost last night.”

Holmes waved his hand, dismissing Watson’s words.

“But I can’t repay you,” Watson insisted. He hated the idea of being indebted to Holmes.

“Perhaps not in legal tender.”

“In what then?” “Your services,” Holmes answered with a small grin.

“My services?” Watson looked up at Holmes in concern. “Are you ill?”

“No, no, of course not,” Holmes said, springing up off the bed to move about the room. He was obviously frustrated that Watson wasn’t understanding him, but Watson’s head was still pounding, and the coffee cup was empty. “You are a doctor, after all.” Holmes raised one eyebrow as he said this and looked at Watson expectantly.

“Yes, what of it?”

“You said that to me last night. Very self-important you were too, I might add.”

Watson winced. “I wasn’t myself last night. I—”

“ _In vino veritas_ ,” Holmes said in a deep, dramatic tone.

Watson laughed in spite of himself. It hurt his head. “Wine, perhaps. I think gin has an entirely different effect.” He paused to think. “I can’t seem to remember my declensions. And what is Latin for ‘horse’s arse’?”

Holmes chuckled.

Watson looked down into his empty cup to avoid Holmes’ gaze. “I’m sorry.”

Holmes seemed almost as embarrassed as Watson, and he rushed in to fill the silence. “Not at all, not at all. Indeed, your behaviour last night was more to my liking than that of the unassuming fellow with whom I’ve been sharing quarters all this while.”

Watson studied Holmes’ face and decided he was telling the truth.

“But truly, Watson, don’t you think you have something to offer me? I’ve learned what I can of anatomy, medicines, poisons, the symptoms of various diseases and injuries, but surely there are countless ways your medical training could be of use to me. I’ve always worked alone, but one can see how having a partner of sorts would be valuable.”

Watson stared at Holmes. He was unable to determine whether Holmes was teasing him by proposing this plan. Holmes stopped his pacing and turned to Watson, then clapped his hands together, looking pleased with himself. “That’s settled then,” he said. He turned and left the room, leaving Watson staring after him.

*****

Holmes left Watson’s bedroom in very good humour. Watson the night before, much the worse for drink and by turns rude, self-deprecating, and apologetic, had been entertaining, but Watson this morning, sleepy and penitent in his rumpled sheets, was positively delightful. Not to mention half-naked.

Or perhaps even more than half—Holmes could not help but notice that at some point during the night Watson’s trousers had joined the rest of his clothing in the middle of the floor. And his pillow-mussed hair made him look so boyish, in spite of his dashing moustache.

Watson laughing, Watson _blushing_ —these images were starting to give Holmes ideas. And Watson had not so much as raised an eyebrow when Holmes had joined him on the bed. He had simply shifted his legs to one side to accommodate Holmes’ presence.

Holmes flew down the stairs to the front door, stuffing his arms into his jacket as he went. Before Watson had awakened, Holmes had spent a few moments examining the boots that had fallen on the stairs the night before. Fortunately it had been a damp evening, and the boot soles had provided a wealth of information regarding where they had traveled.

Holmes was confident he would be able to find the establishment where Watson had gambled away their rent money. Holmes would likely not be able to recover the missing cash. Indeed, he had no desire to see the money again, but by finding Watson’s overcoat, Holmes might do much to endear himself to his suddenly fascinating fellow lodger.

*****

Watson was dozing by the fire late that night when he was awakened by a shaking, nearly incoherent Holmes, his face and hands covered in blood. Shocked, Watson could only stare for several moments, then he leapt up from his chair and half carried Holmes into the surgery. Holmes let out a groan.

“My God,” Watson said, helping Holmes lie down. “Where is it? Where are you hurt?”

Holmes put his hand to his forehead. Watson pushed away his hair to reveal a long, angry gash, still seeping blood. Dark purple bruises surrounded the wound—Holmes had been struck with something very heavy by someone very strong indeed.

“Stay still,” he ordered, then gathered the materials he would need. He carefully cleaned the area and threaded his needle. “Are you squeamish about this?”

Holmes opened his eyes and looked up. His mouth hitched up in half a smile, clearly amused by the intimation that he might be so delicate. Watson was relieved to see that already he seemed much less muddled than when he had first arrived home.

Watson knew that Holmes’ condition was likely not serious—injuries to the head tend to bleed profusely. During his time in the army, Watson had treated many a more horrible wound, so he could not understand why his hands were trembling as he stitched up the cut. Perhaps it was just the fright of awakening to such a sight. He paused, took a few bracing breaths, and finished with a steadier touch. Once Holmes’ forehead was bandaged, Watson helped him into the sitting room and settled him in front of the fireplace.

“How did it happen?” Watson asked as he poured Holmes a tumbler of brandy. “Were you working on a case?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Holmes answered. His voice sounded sleepy, but Watson wanted to keep him awake a while longer to gauge his lucidity.

“Yes?” Watson encouraged. He came close to hand the glass to Holmes, watching as he took a sip, and then went to get Holmes’ dressing gown from where it hung over a drawer handle.

“Suffice it to say, there were three of them, each one larger than the last.” He winced as Watson pulled at his shoulder to help him sit up.

Watson started to pull off Holmes’ overcoat and as he did so realised that the coat was, in fact, his own. “Holmes—”

“I retrieved it for you.”

Watson’s mouth hung open for several seconds before he remembered himself and snapped it shut. “Holmes—”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

Watson let out a frustrated huff. “I appreciate it, of course, but it wasn’t worth—”

“It was no trouble,” Holmes insisted. “My apologies for the blood stains. Mrs. Hudson should be able to remove them. The woman may be a terror, but she excels at making everything clean.”

“A terror?” Watson laughed. “Whatever makes you say such a thing?”

“She has raised the disapproving look to an art form.”

Watson merely shook his head. He dropped the coat onto the floor, then draped the dressing gown over Holmes like a blanket. He looked down at his patient, hands on his hips.

“I think you’ll survive,” Watson said, watching Holmes tentatively touch the skin near the bandage. “Let it alone!” he scolded.

Holmes grinned like a boy. “You see, Watson? Already your skills are indispensable to me.”

Watson determined that Holmes should be awakened at least once to make sure he remained clear-headed. The symptoms of concussion did not always appear immediately. It was no hardship to stay awake for a few hours.

As Holmes drifted off, Watson’s brain had leisure to return to its habitual worry. Watson was grateful to Holmes for being so sporting about the loss of the rent money, but he still berated himself for being so foolish.

Could Holmes be serious about their collaboration? Watson could not imagine what he could offer, other than the kind of service he performed that night. How many stitches would Watson have to sew into Holmes’ skin before he no longer felt himself to be in the man’s debt?

*****

“Watson?” Holmes had opened the kitchen door an inch and was peeking through. “Are you making the tea?”

“There are those amazing deductive powers I’ve heard so much about,” Watson said. He was careful to say it with a smile. He was uncertain they were well acquainted enough for that sort of teasing.

Holmes opened the door further, enough to push his entire head into the room. “But where is Mrs. Hudson?” Watson took a breath to speak, but Holmes answered his own question. “Manchester,” he whispered. He looked at the ceiling, lips pursued, and then sighed. “Her brother-in-law finally died.”

Watson was beginning to accept Holmes’ leaps in thought without question. “Yes, she asked if we could get along without her for a while. I told her we can, of course. I could hardly tell her no, what with being behind on the rent.”

Holmes was silent, and Watson turned to find him still looking annoyed.

Watson stifled a laugh and turned back to the kettle. “I’d have thought you’d be pleased to be rid of her. You speak of her like a schoolboy talks about his governess. Well, she’s gone for weeks. You have the run of the place.”

“Yes,” Holmes said slowly. The word was simple, but his tone was odd. When Watson turned, Holmes’ expression had changed completely from his irritated scowl. A smile curled up one side of his mouth, and when he caught Watson’s eye he raised his eyebrows and then was gone.

As he waited impatiently for the water to heat, Watson heard alarming sounds coming down from upstairs, several rhythmic thuds and one very loud clang. Remembering Holmes’ elaborate chemical experiment, Watson worried for Mrs. Hudson’s carpet, but the noises seemed rather too thumping for something like that. Holmes took much more care with his philosophical instruments.

When the water was ready, Watson poured it into the pot in such a hurry that he scalded his finger. How ridiculous to be rushing so, as if Holmes were a naughty child who required constant supervision. But there was something dangerous hatching in his brain—Watson was sure of it.

Watson stacked the tea things on a tray, lifted it, and took the stairs as quickly as he could thus encumbered. He set the tray down on the table and turned to see Holmes sitting in one of the armchairs, doing nothing suspicious. He was doing nothing at all, but Watson found such calm stillness worrisome after the noises he had heard moments before.

Holmes’ attitude did not seem studied. He appeared genuinely at ease. In some ways that was even more troubling, but there was nothing to be done. Watson poured each of them a cup of tea and settled into his chair, unable to tear his gaze away from Holmes.

Watson drank two cups of tea and then could sit still no longer. “Come into the surgery, and I’ll change your bandage.”

Holmes looked up in surprise. “This moment?”

“Yes,” Watson said. “You wouldn’t let me at it yesterday. It’s been too long.” Watson suspected he was insisting on this only to be doing something. The wound was healing very well and no longer needed his attention, but somehow ordering Holmes about made Watson feel better.

Holmes set down his teacup and followed Watson without further argument. When they entered Watson’s office, Holmes sat on top of the desk, pushing Watson’s things to the side thoughtlessly.

“Why must you sit there?” Watson asked, not liking how petulant his voice sounded. “This is precisely what the examining table is for.”

“The desk’s height is more convenient,” Holmes answered.

He was right, of course. Sitting on the desk brought Holmes’ injury slightly below Watson’s eye level, whereas the examining table, being several inches higher, would make Watson have to reach up in an awkward manner to reach the bandage on Holmes’ forehead. Watson frowned but said nothing.

Once the dressing was changed, Holmes jumped down from his perch on the desk. “Thank you, my dear Dr. Watson,” he said, and flashed one of those mocking smiles.

*****

The next day an envelope arrived in the afternoon post, and upon reading its contents, Holmes grew animated.

“A case,” he explained.

“Wonderful,” Watson said, coming near and trying to get a glimpse of the letter.

Holmes moved away, tucking the paper into his pocket. “A small matter, I’m afraid.”

“But a case…” Watson said, trying to be optimistic.

“Yes,” Holmes said curtly. “I must go out.”

“Shall I come with you?” Watson offered.

“Oh, no, my dear doctor,” Holmes said as he pulled on his jacket. “This will be the work of an afternoon. Don’t trouble yourself.”

Watson followed Holmes to the sitting room door. “But—”

Holmes was already halfway down the stairs. Watson sighed. He should not be surprised that Holmes was refusing his help. He had suspected that Holmes was merely humouring him by suggesting their collaboration. Perhaps Holmes thought he was being kind, but it was humiliating to be patronised.

He almost resolved to confront Holmes about it, to put an end to the charade that they were in some way partners in a business venture, but then he remembered the money. He was still very much in Holmes’ debt, and if it pleased him to pretend Watson was in some way compensating with his services, Watson would go along with it, at least until he could afford to repay what he owed in a more direct manner.

By the time Watson went to bed, Holmes had still not returned. Apparently the work of an afternoon had stretched far into the evening. Watson tossed and turned for a long time before he was able to fall asleep, thinking about Holmes’ hedging and worrying, as always, over the money.

*****

Watson was awakened in the wee hours of the morning by Holmes crawling into his bed, clothes still damp from the rain.

“Holmes! What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m going to sleep.” Holmes’ tone was matter of fact at first, but then he started to whisper. “My, but you’re rude when you’ve been awakened before your time.”

Watson gave Holmes a shove. “Go sleep in your own bed.”

“There’s no fire in my room.”

Yawning, Watson rubbed at his eyes with one hand. “Then go and make one.”

“I would if I could,” Holmes said quietly. “There’s no coal.”

Watson froze. “No coal? None at all?”

“I believe there’s some in the hod in the sitting room, but nothing in my room.”

Watson’s felt his face flush and his heartbeat quicken. He had never felt more embarrassed. His foolishness with money had enough ill effects on his own life, but now he had brought his financial stupidity to bear on the only man he could call a friend. He took a deep breath and said, “Does Mrs. Hudson not know? Perhaps she simply forgot to order more before she left.”

Holmes hesitated. “I didn’t want to worry you. She told me last week that she’d spoken to Mr. Simpson about another delivery, but since we haven’t been able to pay the rent… Well, you see, we never paid for the last order of coal, and they won’t bring another. I told Mrs. Hudson I’d take care of it as soon as possible,” Holmes explained. “She shouldn’t have to embarrass herself to Simpson because we can’t pay our rent.”

Watson’s cheeks burned with shame.

“So,” Holmes said with forced cheerfulness. “I thought until we solve our little financial dilemma we might conserve. Only one fire at night.”

Watson sighed. He had to admit that it made a certain sense, but the awkwardness of sharing a bed embarrassed him further. He moved to position himself more comfortably in the tight space, and his foot bumped something hard, wet, and cold.

“Are you still wearing your boots?” Watson asked indignantly.

“Yes, my feet are freezing.”

“They’re soaked through! And I’m sure they’re filthy. Take them off,” Watson ordered.

“But—”

“I’ll find something for you.” Watson climbed out of the bed and went to his dresser while Holmes kicked his boots onto the floor. Pulling out a clean pair of pyjamas as well as a pair of thick wool socks, Watson handed them to Holmes. “Your clothes, too. Take them off.”

Holmes laughed.

“You have an odd sense of humour.”

“Do I?” Holmes asked, sounding a bit breathless.

“If you find humour in catching your death. Why would you sleep in wet clothes?”

The only reply was another chuckle. Watson heard the bed creaking and the sheets rustling as Holmes pulled off his damp clothes and replaced them with Watson’s things. Once Holmes was still, Watson slipped back into the bed.

“Thank you, Watson,” Holmes whispered.

Watson replied with only a grunt and settled himself in for sleep.

*****

When Holmes awoke he could feel the warmth of Watson’s back close to his own. Holmes stayed still and quiet. He thought that Watson was still asleep until he spoke.

“Perhaps I could sell something.”

Holmes was mildly alarmed. “What on earth do you mean?”

“People take their things to pawnbrokers all the time when they’re short of cash,” Watson explained. “Why shouldn’t I? There’s no shame in it. Very practical, really.”

“That’s ridiculous. You can’t possibly—”

“I don’t know how else to get the money.”

Holmes felt a twinge of guilt. Perhaps his little scheme was going a bit too far. Watson was such an earnest fellow. He was taking this so much more to heart than Holmes had anticipated.

“I’m not even sure I have anything of value to sell,” Watson said. “My watch was my father’s, so I’d prefer not to have to sell it. But something like it, perhaps.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Watson. You’re not going to sell your father’s watch. We simply have to accept another case. I’ve been too particular. I want a challenge, you see, but given our circumstances, I must lower my standards. Any old case will do. The easier the better, to earn some ready money.”

Holmes was certain that Watson’s lack of response meant that he was wanting to argue but unable to think of what to say. Perhaps distraction would be the best tactic.

“Not all of my cases are astounding demonstrations of my skills, you know,” Holmes said. “Some that seem fascinating at first turn out to be all too simple once all the facts are known.”

Watson answered with a noncommittal hum.

Holmes turned to lie on his back, which brought his hip and shoulder directly against Watson’s body. Holmes noted with satisfaction that Watson did not move away.

“But that’s not to say that these more easily resolved cases are not at times memorable,” Holmes continued. “For example, there was the time a Mr. Cosgrove came to me, desperate for help. His daughter was missing, gone without a trace. It sounded intriguing, so I accompanied him to his home. I was inspecting the scene when the daughter’s fiancé arrived, most upset, having learned of her disappearance. The moment I saw him, I immediately understood what had happened.”

After Holmes was silent for several moments, Watson prompted, “Well?”

“Clearly she did not want to follow through with her betrothal.”

“And how did you deduce that?”

“He was the hairiest man I have ever seen in my life.”

“I beg your pardon?” Watson said after a pause.

“You heard me correctly. I’ve never seen so much hair on a single person,” Holmes continued, careful to maintain his serious tone. “A huge moustache and muttonchops. Hair growing out of his ears, out of his nose. I could see tufts of it sticking out of his cuffs. It was unnatural. Hair everywhere but on the top of his head—he was quite bald.”

Watson let out a snort of laughter.

“A few strategic questions revealed several pertinent facts: the marriage had been arranged without the bride and groom ever having met. Mr. Cosgrove was a businessman, filthy rich, who wanted his daughter’s dowry to buy a title.”

“He told you that, did he?”

Holmes continued, glad that Watson was cheered enough to tease him. “A few days before the young lady’s disappearance, Mr. Cosgrove’s secretary had begged leave to go visit his ailing mother, and I’m sure you can guess what followed. It was barely more than an hour from the time Mr. Cosgrove walked in my door before all was clear. My expertise was hardly needed. No one would have any doubt after seeing her intended. The case of the hirsute suitor.” 

Watson was laughing openly now, making the bed shake, and the sound pleased Holmes. 

“Do you know what happened to them?” Watson asked. “After they eloped?”

“It was a happy ending, if you can imagine it. There was nothing to be done—they’d made their way to Scotland straight away. But as soon as they were married they came back and threw themselves at her father’s feet, begging for forgiveness. Mr. Cosgrove was a mercenary fellow but apparently rather soft-hearted when it came to his only child. I believe the young man was being groomed to take over the family business.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Watson said. He chuckled quietly once more.

“I truly felt for the girl. No one would blame her. Such a hulking, hairy brute, for all of his nobility.” Holmes shuddered. “The man she married had been in her father’s employ for several years. Perhaps they were friends. And he was handsome. Young and fit. Tawny hair. Eyes the exact shade of blue to give young ladies romantic notions.”

Holmes was surprised at himself. The secretary in question had actually been plain—thin and sallow. It seemed Holmes could not pass up the opportunity to pay Watson a compliment, however veiled, but if Watson recognised anything of himself in Holmes’ description, he did not remark on it.

*****

Packing his pipe a few days later, Holmes suddenly realised that he had not seen Watson smoking for several days. Watson was perhaps not so fond of his tobacco as was Holmes, but it was certainly not uncommon for him to enjoy a few cigarettes as he paged through one of his ridiculous novels in front of the fire. However, Holmes was quite certain that Watson had not indulged for at least the three previous evenings.

“Watson, I beg your pardon.”

Watson immediately looked up from his book.

“Are you at all particular about your cigarettes?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Watson shook his head. “Why do you ask?”

“I wonder if you might do me the favor of getting rid of these,” Holmes explained as he held his silver cigarette case out to Watson. “I find I don’t care for the blend.”

At once Watson sat up on the edge of his chair and reached for a cigarette, giving his thanks to Holmes with a pleasant smile. After his first deep drag, Watson relaxed back into his chair with a contented sigh, and Holmes knew that his thoughts on the matter had been correct: it was not that Watson chose not to smoke, he simply would not use what little money he might have left to purchase tobacco.

The first cigarette disappeared quickly, and Holmes offered Watson another. Watson regarded him uncertainly, and it seemed he would refuse on some ill-founded notion of pride.

“Truly, consider them yours,” Holmes said. “They are not at all to my taste.”

As Holmes passed the entire case to Watson, their fingers touched. Holmes’ own hands were chilled, and Watson’s, by comparison, were comfortingly warm. Holmes looked up at Watson’s face, but he did not seem to take particular notice. Holmes had observed that Watson had lately become more at ease. He no longer held his body so stiffly in Holmes’ presence and seemed to think nothing at all of casual physical contact between them. Perhaps it was the effect of sharing a bed. The thought made Holmes smile.

Holmes watched Watson bring the cigarette to his lips and realised he would never again partake of that particular type of cigarette himself. It would not do for Watson to catch him in a lie. Holmes also knew that the following day, he would be stopping into a tobacconist shop, on the other side of the city, to purchase more of that very same brand.

*****

Watson woke up shivering. The room was black. The blankets would not budge when Watson tugged at them, so he pulled even harder and heard a groan. He realised that Holmes was wrapped up in the bedclothes like a caterpillar in a cocoon.

Watson knew he was being childish, even as he did it, but he seemed unable to help himself—he grabbed as much of the bedding as he could wrap his hand around and gave a sudden yank. Holmes made a thoroughly ridiculous sound at being awakened in such a manner, and Watson felt gratified. He pulled once more at the blankets in his hand, hoping Holmes would end up sprawled on the floor, but as he did so he felt something cramp in his shoulder, and he cried out.

“Watson?”

Unable to get his breath to answer, Watson reached up to touch his throbbing shoulder with his other hand, silently cursing himself. Holmes’ hand slid over his.

“Allow me,” Holmes whispered. He pulled Watson’s hand out of the way and began to massage the injured shoulder with a gentle but insistent pressure. It was excruciating at first, but as Holmes continued Watson felt the sharp pain dull, and he let himself relax.

“Thank you, Holmes,” Watson said. He would have thought that such an expression of gratitude would be sufficient hint for Holmes to stop his ministrations, and Holmes did remove his hand from Watson’s shoulder, but it was only to move Watson’s arm into a different position. Then he returned to kneading the muscles, moving his hand around to Watson’s back.

“Your wounds trouble you more than you let on,” Holmes said, his voice very quiet.

It was not a question, so Watson did not feel obliged to answer. He was not at all certain he trusted himself to speak. It had been too long since anyone had shown him kindness like this. Watson was afraid if he spoke his voice would waver.

“I didn’t think your shoulder was so very bad, but then you must have put quite a strain on it when you tried to flip me off the bed.”

Watson heard his own nervous laughter before he could smother it. “I didn’t intend—”

“It’s all right, Watson,” Holmes said quietly. His hand moved over the flesh of Watson’s back and shoulder, removing the pain but not leaving Watson feeling soothed. It had been too long since anyone had touched him. Watson shifted, embarrassed at how his body was reacting, moving away from Holmes and starting to sit up and reach for the blankets, but Holmes’ hand held him down.

“You feel much more pain from your leg.” As Holmes spoke his hand slid from Watson’s shoulder, down his ribs, and over his hip, coming to rest on his thigh. Watson started and heard himself gasp, shocked that Holmes was so familiar. Both of them froze, Holmes’ hand on Watson’s leg. Watson realised he was holding his breath. He knew he should move away. He should leave the bed. Perhaps leave the room altogether.

It was much like the moment at the gaming table, the instant when he knew he should step away but somehow could not. The risk of it, the intense rush of excitement: Watson found it impossible to walk away from that feeling.

After several moments of tense silence, Holmes’ hand began creeping back up Watson’s thigh, moving more and more slowly until his fingers curled over the top of the pyjama pants. Watson felt those fingers skim across his stomach and then tug at the drawstring. Holmes paused, his fingers still, and Watson found he could not breathe.

Very slowly, Holmes’ hand snaked into Watson’s pyjamas and wrapped around his cock. After another brief pause, Holmes began stroking, warm and steady. Watson tried to stifle it, but a whimper escaped from his throat. He might have been imagining things, but he thought he saw the flash of Holmes’ teeth in the gloom.

_He’s laughing at me_ , Watson said to himself. Knowing he was being mocked should have made Watson want to end it, but he found he did not care. Holmes could laugh all he wanted as long as he did not stop.

Watson closed his eyes and allowed himself to move, pushing into Holmes’ grasp. Holmes stopped to shove the pyjama pants down out of the way, which gave his hand more freedom of movement. Holmes could now reach Watson’s full length, and with the first few long strokes, Watson bit his lip to keep from crying out. He reached up to clutch Holmes’ shoulder, needing an anchor. Holmes slowed his movements, rolling his thumb over the tip of Watson’s cock, and Watson moaned.

Suddenly Holmes’ hand was gone, and Watson’s eyes flew open. Holmes shifted his weight, propping himself up on one elbow and moving closer, and then Watson felt warmth envelope him again. It was different than it had felt before—Holmes had pressed close so that he could hold his own cock alongside Watson’s, stroking both of them at once.

Watson was shocked, but then sensation overwhelmed him. Warm, velvet skin against his own. Holmes’ breath panting into his ear. Holmes’ strong fingers, relentless. Watson closed his eyes and gave himself over completely. Holmes shifted even closer, tightening his grip, and Watson came, the feeling pulsing through him. He could not move, surges of pleasure draining him of all energy until his limbs felt liquid and weak.

Still Holmes continued, his fingers slippery now, sliding over Watson’s oversensitive skin. Holmes made a rumbling noise deep in his throat. Watson tried to speak, to tell Holmes to stop—it was too much. Holmes pushed his knee between Watson’s legs, his hand barely able to move for being trapped between their bodies.

Then Watson heard Holmes inhale in a hiss and felt the flood of his release, molten hot against the skin of his belly. The tension left Holmes’ body, and his forehead fell heavily onto Watson’s shoulder. Watson could only lie there, gasping. He realised that his hand was still gripping Holmes’ arm tightly and forced his fingers to open.

Holmes collapsed onto the bed. He let out a deep sigh that turned into a groan. Clearly he was just as exhausted as Watson. The sound made Watson want to laugh, though he lacked the strength, and set him at ease somehow.

_So he’s just a man after all_ , Watson said to himself and then thought perhaps he was not making sense. Watson was already drifting off when he felt Holmes’ arm pulling the blankets around the both of them. He reached out almost reflexively, pulling Holmes close to him. Then, warm and satiated, Watson could fight off sleep no longer.

*****

When Holmes woke, his head still rested on Watson’s shoulder. Watson was sleeping soundly, and Holmes stayed still so as not to disturb him, pondering how Watson might react when he woke.

Perhaps he would adopt a sanctimonious air and try to explain how they had been wrong, weak. Perhaps he would say that it could never happen again. Such a reaction did not worry Holmes—that kind of objection was familiar and rarely lasted more than a day or two. Holmes knew when to be patient and when to ignore every protest and simply pounce.

Then there was always the possibility that Watson would leap out of bed the moment he woke. He might look at Holmes in disgust and order him from the house. Or perhaps he would feel ashamed and run from the house himself. There was always the possibility that his repulsion might take a more physical, violent form, although Holmes rather doubted Watson would be that sort.

However, Holmes did not truly know what sort Watson was. He seemed conventional and predictable upon slight acquaintance, but Holmes had been pleasantly surprised, time and time again, while getting to know the man better. Holmes did not have enough data to foresee Watson’s response, but as Watson stirred and woke, Holmes was not concerned, merely curious. He waited.

Watson’s legs moved restlessly, and then he breathed deeply. His head was turned away from Holmes, so only the lines of his brow and cheek were visible, but Holmes could see when his eyes fluttered open. After a moment they shut again, quickly and so tightly that the muscles in his cheeks tensed, then he swallowed. His eyes opened again, and he turned his head slightly so that he was looking up at the ceiling. Holmes could now see his full profile. There was a long silence before Holmes felt a hand come to rest lightly on his shoulder.

Holmes’ heart pounded, waiting for Watson to speak, but there was silence. Several minutes passed, and Holmes could not stand to wait any longer. He propped himself on one elbow so that he could see Watson’s face, trying to read his expression, but Watson turned and sat up on the edge of the bed as soon as his arm was no longer trapped by Holmes’ weight.

Again Holmes waited to discover what Watson would do next, but he surprised Holmes by not doing anything differently from the previous morning, or any of the mornings since Holmes had maneuvered his way into Watson’s bed. After sitting for a moment, flexing his knee a few times to stretch his injured leg, he rose and went to the washstand to wash and shave, and then he began to dress with no apparent self-consciousness.

A nervous glance at Holmes just before opening the bedroom door was the only indication that something out of the ordinary had happened the night before. After Watson had closed the door behind him, Holmes listened to his uneven steps as he descended the stairs. 

_How peculiar_ , Holmes thought, but he felt himself lucky. _If he doesn’t want to discuss it, that’s perfectly acceptable to me. Preferable. I certainly never have enjoyed that sort of mawkish conversation_.

Holmes decided he would spend the day working but would go alone once again. It would be too awkward, he thought, to spend the day together. Much better to let Watson have time to mull things over.

*****

After tea Holmes picked up his violin to save them both the effort of making conversation. Not wanting to appear too obviously eager to please, he avoided playing any of Watson’s established favorites, but he did select pieces he thought Watson might enjoy. Watson listened, staring at the ceiling. His book was propped open on his chest, ignored. Holmes watched him, hoping to see some clue of what he was thinking, but he simply sat in his chair, making no move to leave it even when the clock stuck midnight.

Holmes knew that Watson was anxious. Understanding that much required no great detective genius. However, Holmes was surprised that Watson was taking so long to decide what to do next. Holmes had judged Watson to be a man of action underneath his polite doctor costume, but allowances must be made for unusual circumstances. Holmes would make the first move himself. He finished the sonata he had been playing and set the violin down on the table.

Watson looked at Holmes, then his eyes darted away. Holmes bade Watson goodnight and left the room, climbing the stairs at a steady pace. He glanced into Watson’s room and saw his own blanket draped over the bed. Watson must have fetched it from Holmes’ room—a clear invitation, if ever there was one. Holmes smiled, pleased to see that Watson had taken action after all. Hearing Watson stirring in the sitting room below, Holmes hurried to the bed, turning off the light just as he heard Watson’s tread on the steps.

When Watson reached the landing, he hesitated. It was too dark to see much of anything, so Holmes shifted slightly in the bed, just enough noise to make it clear where he was. Holmes listened as Watson entered the room and undressed, folding his suit neatly on the chair and pulling on his pyjamas.

Holmes waited to hear Watson’s movements as he approached the bed, but there was no sound. It had never occurred to Holmes that Watson might come this far and then change his mind. Then all in a rush, Watson was by the bed, between the sheets, on his side, back to Holmes, his quick breathing loud in the silent room.

Whether it was the effect of the knowledge that Watson had finally made his choice or simply the proximity of his body was impossible to determine, but Holmes found the strength and speed of his own arousal startling. His instinct was to reach for Watson immediately, but he held back a moment, wanting to maintain some control.

Watson had not moved since lying down, and the tension in his body, the intensity of his anxiety, fairly shook the bed. Holmes moved slowly, reaching out with one hand until he made contact with Watson’s back and then sliding that hand down to rest on his hip. Watson exhaled—not quite a sigh—and leaned back against Holmes.

Holmes touched Watson’s cock through his pyjamas, eliciting a quiet moan. After untying the drawstring, Holmes yanked the fabric down and shoved Watson onto his back. Watson’s breath caught, and he tried to sit up, but Holmes was quick, making his way to the foot of the bed and lying with his chest on Watson’s legs, pinning him where his pyjamas pulled tight across his thighs.

They were both absolutely still. Holmes waited for Watson to protest or simply throw him off, but Watson was silent, frozen. Turning his head, Holmes let his breath ghost over the exposed skin of Watson’s hip, smiling when he heard the resulting gasp.

When another brief pause still brought no objection, Holmes lowered his head and licked a long, wet stripe up the length of Watson’s cock, pleased to find that Watson was already completely aroused. Holmes ran his tongue around the head, drawing a groan from deep in Watson’s chest, an aching, greedy sound. Hearing it made Holmes reach down and touch himself through his trousers, one quick hard squeeze to get himself under control. The noises Watson made were shockingly erotic.

Holmes wet his lips and slowly slid his mouth down over the tip of Watson’s cock. Watson’s hips bucked and he was panting. Holmes bent down, taking the entire length of the shaft into his mouth and throat. Watson cried out, and his hips jerked up again. Holmes pressed his weight more firmly against Watson’s legs to hold him in place and suppressed a chuckle as Watson let out a breathy sigh.

Bracing one hand on Watson’s hip and wrapping the other around the base of his cock, Holmes began to move in earnest. Sliding his mouth and tongue over Watson’s cock with painful slowness, Holmes was rewarded with a continual stream of gasps and quiet moans. As he gradually increased his pace, Watson’s hands came up to clutch at Holmes’ head, but then immediately relaxed and touched more gently. His fingers carded through Holmes’ hair, then one hand settled lightly on the top of his head.

Holmes plunged downward to once again take Watson deeply into his throat. Watson gave a small grunt, and Holmes knew it for the warning it was, but although he pulled back a bit he did not completely move away. In a moment, Holmes mouth was flooded, and he swallowed, continuing to caress with his tongue, prolonging Watson’s pleasure.

Watson’s hands ran over Holmes’ hair one last time and briefly touched his face, but then they stilled and fell to the mattress. Watson lay stretched out before Holmes, his breath still coming in gasps. When Watson let out a final satiated moan, Holmes could not stop himself from thrusting his hips into the bed—the man made the most wanton sounds. Holmes thought of settling himself on top of Watson to seek his own release but decided he would save that for a time when Watson had more energy to enjoy it as well.

Watson’s breathing had calmed, and he was very still. Holmes realised Watson was already dropping off to sleep. Frustrating as it was, Holmes was also amused. He had wanted to surprise and amaze Watson, take him to heights of sensual pleasure he had never imagined. Perhaps Holmes should have given some thought to how exhausting that might be. He would have to be satisfied with a job well done and the services of his own hand.

Holmes pushed up off the bed and crawled up to the pillows, pulling the blankets with him. With Watson sprawled over the bed, Holmes had no choice but to lie with his head on Watson’s arm. Watson surprised him, stirring, pulling him closer, and cupping a hand over the back of his head.

Holmes did not want a sleepy embrace—he needed friction, wanted to thrust madly, or even just rub against Watson’s hip or thigh. It would in all likelihood not take very long, but Holmes was unsure how Watson would react to such an overture.

Watson shifted, pulling his arm from under Holmes’ head, twisting until they faced one another. Holmes felt Watson’s hand on his hip and froze, not wanting to startle him.

Watson’s fingers began tugging at Holmes’ trouser buttons. This was more than Holmes had dared to expect. Watson struggled with unfastening the buttons, but Holmes made no move to help. He closed his eyes and relished the anticipation. Watson’s fumbling was much more arousing than the practiced touch of an experienced man.

When Watson succeeded in opening the buttons, he hesitated, but Holmes felt no concern. Watson was merely pausing, regretting his lack of expertise. Holmes had no doubt he would continue.

The first touch was a light brush of Watson’s knuckles, a timid, clumsy gesture. Watson’s fingers then skimmed lightly over the head of Holmes’ cock, and when Watson’s warm, strong hand enveloped the tip completely, Holmes gasped. Watson slid his hand up and down, but the movement was uncoordinated. First he was too forceful, pulling at sensitive skin, and then he was too hesitant. Holmes shifted his position, trying to improve the angle, but Watson’s motions were still rough and clumsy.

_Surely he doesn’t touch himself in this awkward manner_ , Holmes said to himself, and that thought lead to another. He quickly spun in place, pressing his back against Watson’s front, then guiding Watson’s hand back to its place. Watson immediately wrapped his fingers around Holmes’ cock, his grip now confident, and as his arm began to move his hips pushed forward unconsciously.

The press of Watson’s body behind him was delicious, and the idea of Watson touching himself as he was now touching Holmes was maddening. Holmes could picture him, alone in his room, naked, hand on his cock, moaning and panting as he had moments before. Holmes groaned at the arousing image, and Watson’s hand tightened. Holmes rocked his hips and cried out as he came, Watson stroking him until the last shudder.

For a long moment Watson did not move. He simply waited while Holmes recovered, still holding his softening cock. Once Holmes had caught his breath, he reached for his trouser pockets, and Watson started to pull away. Holmes found his handkerchief, then caught Watson’s hand, wiping it clean before tossing the cloth onto the floor. Watson’s arm hovered above their bodies until Holmes grabbed his hand, pulling it to his chest. Watson did not resist, and it took a few moments before his body relaxed against Holmes’ back, but before long he was quietly snoring.

*****

When Watson woke his arm was still wrapped around Holmes. The bed was snug with the combined warmth of their bodies, and Watson was loathe to pull himself away, but it was such a foreign feeling, sharing a bed with someone else. It seemed too intimate, although Watson realised how ridiculous it was to think so, considering the other intimacies they had shared.

Holmes’ hair was tickling Watson’s nose, and Watson caught a hint of the slightly sweet tobacco that Holmes had packed in his pipe the evening before. Holmes shifted, and, fearing that he would soon wake, Watson slid his arm out from under Holmes’ head and rolled away. His pyjamas, still untied and loose around his waist, almost fell to the floor, and he grabbed them with one hand as he went to the bureau and began to dress for the day.

After several minutes, he dared a glance at the bed. Holmes had turned onto his back. His eyes were closed, but his mouth was quirked up in a partial smile. _So he is mocking me_ , Watson thought. _This is some kind of game to him_. 

Yet when they met at the breakfast table, Holmes’ manner was warm and polite. He poured tea for Watson and offered the newspaper, though he himself had been engrossed in its pages when Watson had entered the room. His affability made Watson feel he had been uncharitable—after all, was it not possible that Holmes had been smiling simply because he was content? It was unfair to jump to conclusions.

Watson decided to make more of an effort at conversation, but just as he was about to speak, Holmes rose from the table and dashed off after a quick goodbye, again leaving Watson alone and idle. After such a morning, the day would seem very long indeed.

*****

Watson was lying on the sofa with a book, and at times he appeared to be reading it, but as often as not, when Holmes looked over he caught Watson watching him. And Holmes found himself glancing at Watson frequently. Indeed, he could not seem to draw his eyes away from Watson’s mouth for more than a moment or two at a time. Holmes had never kissed a man with a moustache before, and he was hoping to rectify that situation before the night was through.

Not all men would allow a kiss, even when they welcomed more intimate contact, but after two nights sleeping in Watson’s arms, Holmes had little doubt that Watson would be amenable. For all of his respectable composure, Watson was turning out to be rather affectionate in the privacy of the bedroom. That morning Holmes had felt Watson’s hands on his body—not quite caresses—and just before rising Watson had pressed his face into the back of Holmes’ neck.

Watson closed his book and pulled himself off the sofa. Hands hidden in his pockets, he walked to the window and looked out at the street below. He was anxious, and Holmes was tempted to approach and kiss him then and there, but after a moment Watson said a gruff goodnight and briskly left the sitting room.

Holmes smiled and listened to the sounds above him. He waited until he heard Watson on the steps, until Watson had undressed, cleaned his teeth, and settled into bed. Then Holmes climbed the stairs, stole across the landing, and opened Watson’s door without knocking. Watson said nothing. He was lying on his side, facing the wall. The light was burning very low.

Holmes crossed the room and put his hand on Watson’s shoulder. After a moment, Watson turned his head and looked back at Holmes, his face pale. Not wanting to give Watson any more time to be nervous, Holmes grabbed the bedclothes and pulled them up just enough to slip underneath. Watson tried to slide over to make room, but Holmes held him still, preventing him from moving away, and lay down on top of him. Watson gasped and his body tensed, but his legs spread to make room for Holmes to press close.

Rocking his hips into Watson’s, Holmes found that there were too many barriers between them. When he pulled away, he was pleased to note that Watson frowned at the interruption. Holmes saw the frown increasing as he removed his trousers and thought he should not push too far. He left his smallclothes on and settled himself atop Watson again. This was better—Watson’s pyjamas were so thin they were not much of a impediment, and Holmes’ drawers were worn to softness.

Through the thin fabric, Holmes felt Watson’s cock pressing against his own. He watched Watson’s face in the dim lamplight. Mouth slightly open and breathing quickly, Watson reached up to grab Holmes’ shoulders. Holmes pushed himself down Watson’s body as far as he could, then slid up slowly, so that the entire length of his cock rubbed against Watson’s.

When Watson moaned, Holmes looked up and saw that his eyes were closed. Holmes moved down, then up again, and paused. He then lowered his head and brushed his lips against Watson’s.

Watson’s eyes snapped open. Undaunted, Holmes leaned in for another kiss. Watson did not pull away, and when Holmes pushed his mouth against Watson’s more firmly, Watson’s chin tilted up to meet him. Holmes tentatively licked Watson’s lower lip and felt Watson’s hands clutch at his waist.

Holmes paused, uncertain whether Watson’s reaction resulted from passion or panic. Then Holmes felt Watson’s tongue slide across his own lips and decided to hold nothing back. He explored every corner of Watson’s mouth, then turned his head to slide his lips down Watson’s neck, thrusting his hips all the while.

A moment later, Watson’s hands grasped Holmes’ head, bringing him back for another kiss. Watson’s tongue caressed and teased at Holmes’ mouth, so sensuous that it drew all of Holmes’ attention. He did not realise the rest of his body had stilled until Watson’s hands were at his waist, urging him to move again.

Kissing Watson was somewhat disconcerting. In their previous two encounters Holmes had started out intent on Watson as a man, wanting to glimpse something of his inner workings, but had very quickly been distracted by the simple, purely physical pleasure of it.

The brush of Watson’s moustache with every kiss made it impossible for Holmes to entirely lose himself in the feeling of a muscular, warm body against his own. The individual beneath him had become so distinctly _Watson_ with that bristly tickle. Watson’s moan vibrating against his lips. Watson’s hands sliding down his sides, grasping his hips.

Turning his face away, Holmes pushed himself up on his hands, concentrating on the movement of his hips. He wished now that he had pushed Watson just a little further, managed to rid them of their last few articles of clothing—even the thought of sliding across Watson’s bare skin, the memory of that first night, their cocks pressed together in his fist, was enough to bring Holmes close to orgasm. He struggled against it—he so wanted Watson to finish first.

Suddenly Watson was dragging Holmes down, interrupting their perfect rhythm. Holmes groaned in frustration, but Watson kissed him, wrapping one arm around his back to keep him close. His other arm moved down Holmes’ back until his hand slid inside Holmes’ waistband, clutching at his hip.

Holmes could not move, but Watson thrust urgently up against him. Perfect. Even when he began groaning into Holmes’ mouth, Watson did not stop his slow, deep kisses. They finished at almost the same moment, Watson’s strong arms still holding Holmes tightly, his hips grinding up into Holmes’, and then his body went lax.

Holmes fell to one side, still half draped over Watson. The movement partially roused Watson, and he lifted one hand to thread his fingers through Holmes’ hair, pulling him down. Holmes fell asleep, his head on Watson’s shoulder, listening to Watson’s even breaths. 

*****

Watson awoke the next morning to the sight of grey, threatening skies. He must have forgotten to close the curtains the night before, having prepared for bed with other, more immediate concerns on his mind. Watson did not truly want to confer with Holmes—baldly discussing their… activities would be impossible, but at the same time he wished he knew precisely what it was that Holmes expected. Spending the larger part of every day wondering whether Holmes would come to his bed again was making him uneasy.

Holmes was curled up close behind, and Watson felt snug and comfortable. His confusion about their situation had roused him quickly the last couple of mornings, but he was in no rush to get out of bed at that moment, especially when he eyed the threatening gloom out the window.

Holmes stirred and nuzzled his face between Watson’s shoulder blades. His arm tightened around Watson’s waist, and then his hand slid up under the shirt of Watson’s pyjamas. Watson reached down and placed his hand on Holmes’ hip. In response, Holmes canted his hips, pressing his erection against the thin cotton of Watson’s pyjamas.

Watson gasped, his heart pounding. Holmes stilled the movement of his bottom half, but his hand traveled across the skin of Watson’s chest, teasing one nipple and then sliding slowly down toward Watson’s navel.

Watson could not breathe. The anticipation, waiting for Holmes to touch him, was in itself enough to take his breath away, and the feeling of Holmes’ cock behind him was terrifying and wonderful both. Part of him wanted to scrabble away, and part of him, the part Watson did not know how to manage, wished Holmes would press against him more closely.

Holmes’ fingers were pulling at the drawstring of Watson’s pyjamas when insistent pounding at the front door startled them both. Holmes groaned and pressed a kiss against Watson’s neck. He tugged at the strings again, but Watson covered Holmes’ hand with his, holding it still, just as the knock echoed through the house a second time.

“Holmes,” Watson said.

Holmes heaved a sigh, rolling away from Watson and out of the bed. He grabbed his dressing gown, pulling it on as he stomped from the room, and Watson averted his eyes from the sight of Holmes’ cock straining at the fabric.

Watson was sitting up in the bed when Holmes came back up the stairs. “We have it!” Holmes said, holding up a sheet of paper so thin Watson could see the black ink scrawled on it from the back, even in the uncertain light. “Finally, something worthy of our attention.”

He handed the letter to Watson, who read it eagerly. A body had been found, under rather strange circumstances, and an Inspector Gregson was begging for Holmes’ opinion. Once he finished reading, Watson looked up at Holmes. The expression on his face faintly disgusted Watson—a man had been killed and Holmes was standing in Watson’s bedroom looking smug. Stamford’s warnings came to mind. He had called Holmes cold-blooded, and Watson was coming to understand what he had meant.

Of course, Holmes was satisfied because he had wanted an interesting case, and they needed a case so urgently only because of Watson’s stupidity. It was not for Watson to criticise.

Holmes was now moving about the room, finding his clothes. “Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders. He and Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They have their knives into each other, too. They are as jealous as a pair of professional beauties. We’ll be able to laugh at them, if nothing else.”

There was a peculiar light in Holmes’ eye, and Watson suddenly understood what was driving him. It was the puzzle of it. Holmes craved the challenge of deciphering a difficult problem like a drunk needed his bottle.

Holmes wrestled his boots on, then paused to look at Watson.

“Get your clothes!” he cried.

“You wish for me to come?” Watson said in surprise.

“Yes!” Holmes answered. He gave a little laugh. “If you have nothing better to do.”

Although Watson dressed as quickly as he could, by the time he was finished, Holmes was sitting out front in a hansom, impatient. Before Watson even had time to pull the door closed, Holmes reached up to thump on the ceiling, and they were off.

Holmes remained in the best of spirits—prattling on about his violin, of all things, but Watson could not chase away the feeling that Holmes was behaving inappropriately, that both of them were in the wrong, attempting to profit from the unfortunate victim’s demise. 

“You don’t seem to give much thought to the matter in hand,” Watson said at last, trying to remind Holmes of the gravity of their errand.

“No data yet,” Holmes said, his good mood undisturbed. “It is a capital mistake to theorise before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment.”

When they were still at least a hundred yards from their destination, Holmes called out, ordering the driver to stop. Watson expected to have to limp after Holmes as he charged toward the scene of the crime, but all of Holmes’ urgency seemed to have evaporated. His energy and focus was of a completely different sort than Watson had seen him display before, and it made him seem a stranger. Watson followed a few steps behind and tried not to be in the way.

*****

“You did rather well, Watson,” Holmes said as they left the house. “Whatever made you go snooping around like that?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, don’t apologise. You were very useful. Lestrade and Gregson would likely never have found that writing if left to their own devices.”

Watson did not answer. He felt heat rise to his cheeks from the consciousness that he had been cowardly. He had noticed the bloody letters left by the murderer only because he had wanted so desperately to escape the horrible grimace of the corpse.

He should not have been so shocked: he was not unaccustomed to seeing dead bodies, after all, but for most of those that he had seen, the cause of death had been all too abundantly clear. Perhaps this body, free of blood, its limbs intact—in fact displaying no obvious injuries at all—should have seemed less horrible, but Watson had found that the reverse was true. He had not wanted to show the degree to which the victim’s terrible expression unbalanced him.

He had not been able to bear the sight of Holmes leaning close to the dead man, searching through his clothes, and so he had moved away, hoping that if he pretended to search for clues, no one would suspect him of being squeamish. Several moments had passed with Watson staring absently at the wall before it registered in his brain what he was seeing and he called Holmes over. However, if Holmes was of the impression that Watson had contributed something of importance, then Watson was not about to correct him.

“May I ask where we’re going?” Watson said, breathless from his efforts to catch up with Holmes.

Holmes glanced at Watson and slowed his pace. Watson felt grateful for the consideration but frustrated that it was necessary.

“We are going to speak with the constable who discovered the body,” Holmes explained. “But first we are going to find a telegraph office.”

“I thought I heard Gregson say that they’d already sent inquiries.”

“Indeed, but I have some very specific points that I’d like to have addressed. If another telegram could perfect my understanding of the particulars, I’d be more satisfied with my solution.”

“Solution?” Watson repeated. In his shock he stopped and stared.

Holmes took a few more steps before he slowed and turned to look back.

“Do you mean to say that you’ve solved it already?” Watson asked. “It’s not possible.”

With a hint of a smile, Holmes shook his head. “There is much that is still obscure, though I have made up my mind on the main facts.”

Watson did not answer, but simply stared at Holmes in disbelief.

“My dear Watson, I can’t tell you much more. You know a conjurer gets no credit once he has explained his trick, and if I show you too much of my method of working, you will come to the conclusion that I am a very ordinary individual after all.”

A flood of affection for Holmes and the small, falsely modest smile he wore gave Watson the urge to kiss him, standing there on the mud of the Brixton Road. The idea that he could find Holmes ordinary was laughable. “I shall never do that,” Watson said, unable to keep the warmth out of his voice.

Holmes flushed with pleasure and looked away.

Holmes was a long time in the telegraph office, and Watson’s shoulder ached from leaning heavily on his cane as he waited. Afterward, as they walked, Holmes took Watson’s arm. Watson wished he could simply enjoy the contact as a friendly gesture, but he was certain Holmes’ motivation was more charitable than anything else.

As they crossed a busy street, they were obliged to step quickly out of the way of a carelessly driven cab, and Watson stumbled. He felt Holmes’ grip tighten on his elbow.

“This will not do,” Holmes said.

Watson was embarrassed. Holmes should have not to slow his pace to the shuffling of an invalid. “I’m sorry,” Watson said, slightly out of breath. “You might go on without me.”

Holmes raised his arm to hail a cab. “Nonsense. If there’s any fault I assure you it is mine. We’re in a rush only because I want to go to Halle’s concert this afternoon. I hope to finish in time.”

Too tired to object, Watson climbed into the cab and collapsed on the seat. His limbs were shaking, and he could not tell whether the cause was overexertion or the fact that he had had nothing to eat all day.

Once Holmes had shouted instructions to the driver, he clambered up and shut the door. His thigh was warm against Watson’s aching leg, comforting.

“We should make time for lunch after this interview,” Holmes said, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “I’m positively famished.”

*****

When they left the constable’s humble lodgings, Holmes was very pleased, humming to himself. His happy mood continued throughout their meal, and he did not seem to notice how very quiet Watson was as they ate.

Despite Holmes’ genial invitation, Watson decided not to accompany him to the concert. The day had been too draining. It was not only Watson’s injuries that had tired him, nor even getting to bed so late over the past few evenings. It was simply Holmes. His undeniable, enormous presence. Watson had been with Holmes for the entire morning and had thought of little else for several days. He was exhausted.

When he returned home, he immediately fell onto the sofa. He tried to sleep, but he was troubled by the horrific image of the dead man’s distorted face, the bloody writing on the wall. It all seemed so sinister. Nor could Watson keep his mind from circling over another subject, an unmentionable subject. Watson was not at all sure what to think about that.

Of course Watson had been aware of these kinds of goings-on. He had been to public school, after all. He could even admit that, as a very young man, he had been curious, but he had also been very afraid of getting caught. So much so that he had never been brave enough to indulge his curiosity.

During Watson’s time in the army, there a been an officer in the regiment who had spent an inordinate amount of time with a certain handsome young private. Watson had not credited the gossip until one cold night, when the officer’s tent happened to be directly next to Watson’s. He heard through the canvas walls two voices and laughter, low and private.

It had been such an alien sound at the time—so unlike the raucous laughter the soldiers used to chase away their fear. Watson, alone and shivering, had rather wished he had been inclined to find comfort in another man’s arms. However, it had been an idea resulting more from desperate loneliness than a true desire, and Watson had not given it any thought since.

Was he so desperately lonely now? Is that why he had allowed Holmes such intimacies? Watson had not felt himself to be lonesome, at least not since he had begun spending so much of his time with Holmes. If Watson had rejected Holmes’ advances, there was the possibility that their fledgling friendship would have faded.

However, fear of losing Holmes’ companionship could not be Watson’s motivation, because it had not occurred to him. Truly, Watson had not really thought much of anything when Holmes had first touched him. He had not agonised over his decision—had not actually _made_ a decision. He had been so taken by surprise. His body had responded, and that was that. And how could he not have responded? The way Holmes touched him, so knowing. And his mouth…

Watson shifted his legs, adjusting his trousers. Before he quite realised what he was doing, he had looked at the clock and calculated how long it would be before he could reasonably expect Holmes to return from his concert.

Watson sighed. Loneliness, physical need, surprise—any of these things might explain his actions the first night. But what of the second night? And the third? His willingness that morning? His eagerness for Holmes’ return?

Sleep would not come. Watson tried to clear his mind, but he could not feel comfortable, and every noise on the street outside made him hopeful for Holmes’ return.

*****

When Holmes entered the sitting room, Watson could see that the music had rather increased his good humour. He raved about the concert as he paced the room, stopping only when he seemed to register, perhaps from Watson’s posture on the sofa, that the afternoon of rest had done little to restore his energy.

Holmes came to sit on the edge next to Watson and studied his face. “You’re not looking quite yourself.”

“I’m merely tired,” Watson said automatically, disconcerted by Holmes’ scrutiny. “It’s nothing.”

Holmes did not look convinced but offered no argument.

“Perhaps I’ll go to bed,” Watson said. He hoped Holmes would follow him upstairs.

“I’m afraid I must ask you to remain here.”

“I beg your pardon?”

In lieu of answering Holmes held out a newspaper. There was an advertisement in the “Found” column, circled with a dark pencil. Watson glanced at the text and was surprised to see his own name. Sitting up, Watson turned the page into the lamplight. A more careful reading showed that readers were invited to apply at 221B Baker Street to retrieve a lost gold wedding band.

“Excuse my using your name,” Holmes said, leaning against Watson’s shoulder. “If I used my own, it would have been difficult to prevent Lestrade and Gregson from meddling.”

“I don’t mind,” Watson answered, turning his head to look at Holmes. “But what will we do, supposing someone comes? I have no ring.” He was not surprised when Holmes handed him a plain gold band. “Do you really think he’ll come? Won’t he consider it too dangerous?”

“He will come,” Holmes said without hesitation. “You shall see him within an hour.”

“And then?” Watson asked.

“You can leave me to deal with him then. Have you any arms?”

Watson felt a jolt of fear and answered in a quiet voice. “I have my old service revolver.”

“You had better clean it and load it. He will be a desperate man, and though I shall take him unawares, it is as well to be ready for anything.”

Watson rose to follow this advice, his exhaustion replaced by a nervous excitement. It took him longer to prepare his revolver than it ought because his fingers were shaking and clumsy, and when he returned to the sitting room, Holmes was toying with his violin. He looked up at Watson.

“The plot thickens,” Holmes said. “I have just had an answer to my American telegram. My view of the case is the correct one.”

“And that is—?”

The answering look Holmes sent in Watson’s direction was surprising. Watson would almost have called it flirtatious.

“My fiddle would be better for new strings,” Holmes declared, determined to keep his secrets. He then looked at the clock on the mantle, and his face turned serious. “He will probably be here in a few minutes. Put your pistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes, speak to him in an ordinary way. Leave the rest to me. Don’t frighten him by looking at him too hard.”

Watson nodded, Holmes’ seriousness and intensity making him more anxious. As they waited, Holmes made a pretense at casual conversation, but Watson could not forget that a killer might enter their rooms at any moment. He imagined what the villain might look like, and his mind conjured the image of the dead man, reincarnated as his own murderer, his twisted face made all the more horrible by a pair of coal black eyes, angry and monstrous.

Watson shook his head to clear it of such nonsense. It was a ridiculous notion, and he had no idea why it had crept into his head. With imaginings like that, he would do well to take up writing gothic romances to frighten foolish young women.

Having expected such a fiend, however, Watson found their visitor all the more surprising. Far from being a vengeful, terrifying brute, or even an inoffensive, ordinary man, it was a tiny, shriveled old woman who came to the door asking after the ring.

Baffled, Watson immediately looked to Holmes, expecting to see his customary knowing smile, but instead he looked equally shocked. While Holmes recovered quickly and questioned the woman politely, Watson was too surprised to take part in the interview to the extent that he had intended, but at a nod from Holmes he rose from his chair to place the ring in the small, wrinkled hand. As he did so, the gun in his jacket pocket thumped against his side, and he was appalled that he had armed himself against a harmless old woman.

The moment their visitor shuffled out the door, Holmes sprang to his feet. “I’ll follow her. She must be an accomplice and will lead me to him.” In spite of his haste, Holmes paused and gave Watson a sideways look. “Wait up for me,” he whispered, and then he was down the stairs.

Once Holmes had been gone for several moments, Watson realised he had been holding his breath. An accomplice? That shrunken little person? And the suggestive manner in which Holmes had asked Watson to wait for him—it made his heart pound. There was no need for Holmes to ask, for sleep was impossible.

*****

The second Holmes walked through the door, it was obvious that he had not been successful. Closing his book, Watson swung his feet onto the floor and sat up on the sofa, watching Holmes’ face. Holmes surprised him by breaking into a hearty laugh.

“What happened?” Watson asked.

“I wouldn’t have the Scotland Yarders know it for the world,” Holmes said, falling down onto the sofa next to Watson. “But I don’t mind telling you.”

Holmes explained how he followed the old woman, perching on the back of her cab, only to find, when the driver stopped at the address she had given, that she had disappeared.

“You don’t meant to say that that feeble old woman was able to get out of the cab while it was in motion, without either you or the driver seeing her?”

“Old woman be damned!” Holmes cried. “We were the old women to be so taken in. It was a young man, an actor. I should have known. I should have seen through it. I use disguises often enough myself.” Holmes shook his head and laughed again.

Watson had heard Holmes laugh before, if only a few times, but it had never sounded anything like this. This time there was no trace of mockery or sarcasm. This sound was pure delight, and it was at Holmes’ own expense. Watson was pleased to see that Holmes could laugh at himself—he would not have thought it possible. Rather than becoming angry at being bested, Holmes seemed pleased to have found a worthy adversary.

“Was it our murderer?” Watson asked.

Holmes looked at Watson out of the corner of his eye. “I think not. An accomplice. Our man is not so friendless as we had thought.”

“What does that mean for us?”

Raising an eyebrow, Holmes placed his hand high on Watson’s thigh. “It simply makes the case more interesting.”

Watson’s heart thumped, surprised that Holmes would touch him so intimately outside the bedroom. Watson wanted to reciprocate, wanted to invite Holmes upstairs, or simply kiss him and undress him there on Mrs. Hudson’s sofa, but before he could act, Holmes’ manner changed completely, as if he had donned one of his disguises the moment after he spoke. Gone were the smiles and the sly glances, and Holmes became professional, almost distant.

“Now, my dear Watson,” Holmes said, giving Watson’s knee an innocuous pat as he rose from his seat. “You are looking done up. Take my advice and turn in.”

Watson stared as Holmes turned his back and began shuffling through the confusion of papers on his desk.

After a moment of indignant indecision, Watson stalked out of the room. He did not all care for being ordered off to bed like a child. And after Holmes had specifically asked that he wait up. Stopping on the landing, Watson considered returning to his comfortable chair by the fire but decided he would feel even more ridiculous if he did. He climbed the stairs.

*****

As soon as Watson left the sitting room, Holmes got up to open the door a crack and peek through. He smiled when he saw Watson hesitate. Holmes had no wish to make Watson unhappy but wanted to gauge how he reacted to being so rudely sent away. As Watson slowly mounted the steps, Holmes could see his expression—puzzled, perhaps, but not wounded.

Holmes heard the water running upstairs. Watson must be filling the bathtub. The thought of Watson, relaxed and pliant in a steamy bath, was a temptation, but Holmes already had a plan for the evening. He kicked off his boots and made his way up the stairs, careful to step over the squeaky board on the landing.

Watson’s bedroom was dark. Holmes lit the lamp and quickly stripped off his clothes. The air was cold, and the sheets were even colder, icy against his naked skin. As his body heat warmed the bedclothes and Watson still did not emerge, Holmes found himself getting sleepy, in spite of his anticipation.

_How much longer will he be?_ Holmes thought. _Is he sulking? Perhaps I shouldn’t have sent him away_.

Holmes had almost resolved to rise and join Watson when the bedroom door opened. Watson was wrapped in his dressing gown, his skin slightly flushed from the heat of his bath. He did not meet Holmes’ gaze as he came into the room, and he wore a small frown.

_Ah, it seems I might have injured his pride a bit after all_ , Holmes said to himself. He watched as Watson opened a drawer and pulled out his pyjamas. Holmes sat up, letting the blankets fall to his waist. “Watson.”

Watson turned, and his eyes swept over Holmes’ bare torso, but he did not answer. He looked back at the mirror and ran a comb through his damp hair, which was sticking up in several places, curling from the humidity of the lavatory.

“Watson,” Holmes repeated, and he pushed the covers away completely.

When Watson turned and saw Holmes’ nudity, his eyes widened. He tried to scowl again, but the skin on his neck was reddening, and his breath was coming quickly. Holmes could not help but congratulate himself, even as Watson hesitated in the middle of the room. Holmes reclined on the pillows, deciding to be patient, but he did not have long to wait. Watson crossed the room in two long strides and threw himself onto the bed.

Watson pulled Holmes over to lie on top of him and kissed him, parting Holmes’ lips with his tongue. Holmes pulled back and tugged at the lapel of the dressing gown, giving Watson a disapproving look. Watson rolled his eyes, but pushed Holmes off. The fabric of the robe was tangled around Watson’s legs, and he knelt on the bed to remove it. His fingers pried at the knot, but he looked at Holmes anxiously. Holmes raised his eyebrows, expectant, and Watson blushed.

Holmes hid his smile. _How is it possible that he’s still bashful?_

Watson took a deep breath and let the dressing gown fall. Holmes’ eye was immediately drawn to the still-raw, pink flesh at Watson’s shoulder, but he quickly let his gaze slide away, not wanting to remind Watson of his injuries. His body was lean and strong, and his clean, heated skin gave off a rosy golden glow in contrast to Holmes’ own paleness. This time Holmes allowed his smile to spread over his face.

Watson affected nonchalance at this reaction, but he was obviously pleased. He crawled over to straddle Holmes’ body, holding himself up on all fours, and bent his head for another kiss. Then Watson gave a sheepish smile as he turned his face to one side and closed his eyes. Holmes felt Watson’s hand slide up his thigh and brush over his cock. Holmes actually saw Watson’s blush measurably deepen at the contact, but his smile widened as well. _He enjoys feeling daring_ , Holmes said to himself. _Naughty even. He’s been such a good boy—he deserves some indulgence_.

Holmes raised his head to lick Watson’s lower lip but then pulled away quickly, while Watson’s eyes were still closed. Reaching up to grasp the wooden spindles of the bedstead, Holmes slid himself up toward the pillows so that when Watson opened his eyes, he was greeted by the sight of Holmes’ erection directly in front of his face.

Watson let out a huff of air. Was it shock or amusement? When he looked up, Holmes feigned innocent surprise. Watson’s expression shifted—Holmes could see him gathering his determination. Moving slowly, Watson ran his tongue up the length of Holmes’ cock. Holmes gasped at the sight of it as much as at the feeling. Watson bent closer and opened his mouth again. Holmes shut his eyes and let his head fall back onto the pillows.

When Watson’s mouth closed around him, Holmes grabbed the bedstead again to prevent himself from clutching at Watson’s head. Watson’s movements were a bit awkward at first, but Holmes managed to keep quiet when he felt the nick of a tooth.

_He has a lot to learn_ , Holmes thought as he gripped the headboard more tightly. In a moment, however, he found himself gasping as Watson grew more confident in his movements, experimenting with his tongue to marvelous effect. _But it seems he is a very quick study_.

*****

Holmes woke in the morning to Watson’s hands ranging slowly over his body. Stroking his shoulders and chest. Sliding down his thighs. It was a disorienting, if pleasant, manner in which to awaken.

Struggling to lift his heavy eyelids, Holmes hummed a little noise to show his approval of Watson’s attentions. When their eyes met, Watson averted his gaze almost immediately, shy once again, but his grin was pure wickedness. Holmes let his eyes fall closed again, and in a moment Watson’s mouth covered his. Holmes returned the kiss with enthusiasm, but a small part of his mind reacted with alarm.

_I do hope the dear boy does not fancy himself in love_ , he thought. _That is always inconvenient_. Watson’s lips lingered on his, and he remembered that when they had finished the night before, as they caught their breath and settled in for sleep, Watson had been rather intent with his kisses. _No, no. This is too perfect to ruin with complications like—_

The thought was interrupted by Watson’s hand wrapping around Holmes’ cock.

_Ah, that’s all right then_ , reasoned Holmes. _If this is merely a prelude to—_

Holmes noticed that Watson’s mouth was inching downward, sliding kisses down his neck, his chest. Then Holmes felt the glide of Watson’s tongue on his belly, and when Watson’s warm, wet mouth surrounded his cock, Holmes ceased to think at all.

*****

The newspapers were a relief. They were full of stories about the murder, and poring over them gave Watson an excuse to hide his blush behind the broadsheets when Holmes came to the table. Once his cheeks had cooled and he folded his paper, Watson found Holmes watching him, wearing the most subtle of teasing smiles, and scolded himself for that morning’s… interlude. He should not have been so bold.

The papers provided a much needed distraction. Holmes simply could not resist the opportunity to point out every error the reporters blithely set down as fact, not to mention take a few jabs at their friends on the police force.

Just as Watson began to feel comfortable again, able to put his embarrassment behind him for the moment, their breakfast was interrupted by odd noises: thumps and whispers on the stairs. Watson stared in disbelief as a half dozen filthy street urchins made their way into the room.

Holmes spoke to these surprising callers by name, firing off question after question and seeming thoroughly dissatisfied with the replies. One by one the boys stopped answering and hung their heads. After an uncomfortable pause, the tallest among them finally protested.

“It’s only been one day, Mr. Holmes, sir.”

Holmes’ expression softened. “Quite right. I hardly thought to have results so quickly, but one always hopes.” He then walked down his unruly line of deputies and placed a shilling into each dirty little paw. “Come back with a better report next time.”

Watson was disconcerted to discover that Holmes would put children to work at such a dangerous pursuit as tracking a murderer, but the boys were certainly eager—and quick. Holmes dismissed them with a wave of his hand, and they scurried out the door and down the stairs before Holmes had returned to his seat. Perhaps they would be safe enough. There could be no doubt they would be much better off because of their earnings. If nothing else, their dinners would be heartier that evening.

Although Holmes would certainly deny it if the subject were introduced, it was obvious that he was fond of the little beggars. Watson found that fact inexplicably pleasing.

*****

It was later that afternoon that Holmes’ trust in the abilities of those ragged boys bore fruit. Gregson and Lestrade had arrived separately, each with his own theories and complications, but neither was any closer to solving the case. Holmes’ confidence of success did little to reassure them. The discussion was interrupted by a quick knock at the door.

Without waiting for an answer, one of Holmes’ street Arabs poked his head in the door and said, “I have the cab downstairs.”

“Very good,” Holmes answered, his eyes flashing. “Just ask him to step up, Wiggins.”

Holmes’ manner became brisk, and he retrieved a portmanteau from under the desk. For a moment, Watson wondered why Holmes had not mentioned his intention to travel, then realised this was part of whatever scheme he had in motion to catch the culprit. He had not wanted to reveal anything to Gregson or Lestrade for fear that their interference would disrupt his plan.

A heavy tread sounded on the steps, and Holmes fumbled with the fastenings of the baggage, struggling to close it up. The cabman entered the room, and Holmes did not so much as look up from his task before asking him for help. When the cabman reached out for the strap, Holmes pulled a pair of handcuffs seemingly out of thin air and clapped them on the man’s wrists.

Every man in the room froze in surprise. The cab driver recovered first, pushing around the desk. He made for the window and attempted to throw himself through, but Holmes caught his arm and pulled him back. Seeing Holmes struggle roused Watson from his shock, and he leapt at the man, tackling him. All three fell to the floor.

The man was extraordinarily strong. Even with his hands bound, it was all Watson could do to keep him down as Holmes secured his ankles. Still he resisted, and Watson was obliged to press his arm against the man’s neck, cutting off his breath until he finally passed out and was still.

Immediately Watson looked up and found Holmes gazing at him intently.

“Thanks for that,” Holmes said with a hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Watson found himself smiling back. He felt a strange exhilaration. “You did say you wanted me to help.”

“As well you should. You were marvelous,” Holmes said, making no effort to hide the suggestive note in his voice.

Anxious that they might be overheard, Watson’s eyes skipped over to where Gregson and Lestrade still stood, unmoving and open-mouthed.

“Not to worry,” Holmes whispered, leaning close. “As with all things, they look, but they do not see.”

With Holmes’ breath in his ear and the excitement of the struggle still pumping through his body, Watson suppressed a shiver. He knew he could not hide the flush that spread over his face, but Holmes had been correct: Gregson and Lestrade seemed to notice nothing amiss. Their thoughts were only for the case, for the murderer, now caught. 

The man’s own cab carried him to prison. Holmes and Watson were allowed to come to the station to hear his confession, but Watson was distracted. Seeing the gleam in Holmes’ eye, knowing how pleased he was with this dramatic conclusion, knowing how pleased he was with Watson for leaping in to secure the murderer, and, perhaps most important, knowing how pleased Holmes was with himself for solving so unusual a case, Watson could only imagine the level of enthusiasm Holmes would exhibit once they were safely at home. He could think of nothing else.

As much as a half hour passed where Watson’s only concern was keeping his overcoat carefully positioned over his lap, and then he realised that he had heard nothing of the villain’s confession. He saw Inspector Lestrade scribbling furiously and decided he need not scramble to catch up—he would simply ask to borrow those notes. He would say he wanted to compare them with his own. He need not attempt to pick up the thread of the story, which was fortunate, because all Watson could hear was the blood pounding in his ears.

*****

The moment the front door closed behind them, Holmes threw the bolt and turned to Watson, slamming him against the wall and leaning close.

Watson turned his face away. “Holmes!”

Holmes moved away and regarded Watson with amusement. “Upstairs then?” He turned and climbed the staircase with brisk, bouncing steps.

Watson hung up his overcoat and followed Holmes, but slowly. He still felt the excitement that had kindled with Holmes’ suggestive leering during the arrest, but Holmes was different this evening. Watson could not determine what the difference was, and he found the uncertainty unnerving.

When Watson entered his room, Holmes was sitting on the edge of the bed, but he stood immediately and crossed the room. He reached out, sliding his hands over Watson’s shoulders and down his arms, pushing off his jacket. He leaned close and pressed his lips to Watson’s, and his fingers found Watson’s waistcoat buttons. He methodically removed every stitch of Watson’s clothing, kissing him all the while—deep, wet kisses that made Watson’s heart pound.

When Watson was naked, Holmes herded him to the bed and pushed at his shoulders until he sat down. Then Holmes fell to his knees in front of Watson. After one more lingering kiss, Holmes bent and took Watson’s cock into his mouth. Watson groaned. The sound was so loud in the silent house that he blushed. Holmes must also have noted the way the noise echoed in the quiet rooms, because he chuckled. The vibration of his mouth made Watson moan again and jerk upward, unable to control the movement of his hips.

Holmes gripped Watson’s legs, forcing him to keep still. Watson threaded his fingers through Holmes’ hair, and Holmes took Watson deep into his throat. Watson feared he would not last very long. He gasped, and Holmes responded by pulling away, leaving Watson feeling exposed in the chill air. He moaned in frustration as Holmes straightened and kissed his neck.

“All in good time,” Holmes said. He spoke as easily as if they were sharing tea and the newspaper over the breakfast table, but it was jarring to Watson’s ear. Neither of them had ever uttered a word while they were thus engaged. Watson could not tell what to make of it.

Another kiss, then Holmes began shoving at Watson’s knees, forcing him up onto the bed. Holmes crawled up to sit on Watson’s legs, wrapping his arms around him. Holmes’ tongue flicked into Watson’s mouth and then away again before Watson could respond. Holmes was still completely clothed, and Watson felt himself at a disadvantage, but it was wonderfully decadent, feeling the soft fabric of Holmes’ shirt pressed against his bare chest, the rougher slide of Holmes’ trousers against his legs and cock.

Holmes pushed Watson down flat on the bed and stripped to the waist. Watson’s eyes scanned over Holmes’ body. He liked seeing Holmes like this, the lean musculature of his arms and chest defined clearly in the shadows from the lamp. Holmes was finely built, and clothing hid his wiry strength.

Holmes leaned down and pressed close. The skin of his chest was hot against Watson’s body. After a long kiss, he moved to the side to lean on one elbow, his leg still draped over Watson’s. His tongue teased Watson’s ear while his hand traced a slow path down Watson’s neck and chest, all the way down to his cock. Holmes moved his hand in long, lazy strokes. The sensation was wonderful but maddening—after being so close before, Watson no longer wanted to linger. He reached up and tried to push Holmes over onto his back, but he shrugged off Watson’s hand and lowered his head to thrust his tongue into Watson’s mouth. When Watson moaned, it was more from frustration than pleasure. Again Holmes abruptly pulled away.

“Don’t tease me,” Watson pleaded with a groan.

Holmes laughed quietly. “Never, my dear Watson.”

Holmes kissed Watson, then moved away to the foot of the bed. Watson tried to steady his breathing. When Holmes touched him again, his hand was slippery. The feeling was astonishing—enveloping him in silken heat.

Watson let his head fall back, his eyes fall closed. He felt Holmes’ other hand on his leg, also slick with the oily substance. Holmes never stopped his perfect, rhythmic strokes as he spread the oil over Watson’s skin. He brought both hands together, one hand sliding up and down the shaft of Watson’s cock while the other encircled the head. Then one hand moved lower to cradle Watson’s testicles, then further back, slick fingers teasing, then suddenly inside him.

Watson gasped at the feeling, and Holmes stilled. Watson’s entire body had tensed. He did his best to reverse that reaction, lowering his hips to the bed, letting one leg fall to the side.

“Yes.” Watson forced out the word in a whisper, and Holmes made a strangled sound deep in his throat. Then his hand moved, his fingers slipping almost all the way out and pushing back in. Watson clenched his eyes shut, afraid to move.

“Watson,” Holmes said softly. He grasped Watson’s cock again, still gently shifting the fingers of his other hand.

As Holmes’ caresses brought Watson back to full arousal, the fingers inside him felt less like an intrusion. He took a deep breath, forcing his body to relax.

“There you are,” Holmes encouraged quietly. He added a third finger and pushed deeper, finding a place inside Watson that sent a jolt through him, shocking him with its intensity. Watson whimpered, too far gone to be embarrassed at the noise. With Holmes’ nimble fingers inside him and his other hand continuing those steady strokes, Watson felt his orgasm approaching again. He rocked his hips between Holmes’ hands. He wanted to plead for Holmes to bring him his release, but he could not form the words.

Watson felt Holmes’ fingers suddenly withdraw, and he cried out in protest. He opened his eyes to see Holmes kneeling on the bed, tearing off the rest of his clothes. He crawled up to lie down on Watson, settling himself carefully. Watson could feel Holmes’ cock pressing where his leg and body met, but when Watson rocked his hips, Holmes did nothing but lean in for a kiss.

Watson knew where Holmes was leading him, had suspected since he first felt the slickness of the oil on his skin. He wanted it too—surely Holmes had to know how very willing he was. Why was he hesitating? Watson reached up with both hands to hold Holmes’ head and pull him down for a savage kiss.

“Please,” Watson said.

Holmes smiled, as if he had been waiting for that exact word. It was a satisfied smile, as if Holmes had known things would happen just that way. Holmes kissed Watson once more, then pulled away to kneel between his legs. Watson found it hard to breathe. He closed his eyes, reminding himself to remain relaxed.

When he felt the first push of Holmes’ cock, Watson was sure the act was impossible. Watson could feel every small movement as Holmes pressed inside. He was gentle, but there was a heat to the pressure that Watson was not sure he could stand, an almost burning sensation. He let a small sound escape from his lips. Holmes heard it and stopped immediately, breathing quickly as he tried to maintain his control. Watson reached up with one hand and wrapped it around the back of Holmes neck.

“Don’t stop,” Watson whispered. He changed the angle of his hips, hoping to ease his discomfort. He looked up at Holmes, whose expression was one of complete concentration. Holmes let out a stifled groan. After a long moment, he slid forward another inch.

“Yes,” Watson urged.

Holmes moaned again. His weight was resting on his hands as he held himself above Watson, and his head dropped down between his shoulders. Watson shifted his hips again, this time pressing back, amazed at the feeling of Holmes’ cock sliding even further inside of him. One last slow push from Holmes and he was fully inside. He waited there, breathing heavily, until Watson said his name. His eyes opened.

Holmes slowly pulled back and thrust in again. He leaned back, wrapping one hand, still slippery with oil, around Watson’s cock, making Watson moan.

The burning ache began to fade as his body adapted, leaving behind a flooding warmth that burst into intense pleasure every time Holmes pushed deep. Combined with the insistent rhythm of Holmes’ hand, that pleasure built quickly, stealing Watson’s breath.

The heat spreading throughout Watson’s body melted his very bones. Holmes whispered Watson’s name and began to move more quickly, pressing Watson toward the headboard. Watson gripped the sheets, holding on so that that he could push back into Holmes’ thrusts. Watson cried out as he came. His body convulsed around Holmes inside of him. Holmes’ hand was hot around Watson’s cock, moving slowly, drawing out the feeling until Watson’s every limb trembled.

When he was through Watson lay panting on the mattress, unable to move. He opened his eyes long enough to give Holmes an exhausted smile, then let them fall shut again.

“Watson?”

Watson forced his eyelids to lift again. Holmes was staring down at him very intently, and he was shaking from the effort of holding himself so very still. Watson lifted one hand and ran his thumb across the stubble at Holmes’ chin. Holmes moved his hips slightly, and Watson smiled.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes.”

Holmes closed his eyes and bent his head down. Watson was surprised that his body could still feel so much—a breathtaking, fluid sensation spreading from the pressure of Holmes inside of him. Holmes’ thrusting was urgent now. He made a desperate, almost animal sound and reached down to grab Watson’s thighs, tugging him closer, pulling his hips up off the bed. Watson held his breath as Holmes’ thrusts grew more erratic. Holmes cried out. His movements became forceful, rough, and Watson loved it, loved feeling how very much Holmes wanted him. Another cry and Holmes froze. He was silent, motionless as he came, and then he collapsed.

*****

Holmes woke up with his head on Watson’s shoulder. The lamp was still lit, so Holmes carefully extricated his limbs from Watson’s and padded around the bed to turn it off. As he reached for the lamp, Holmes paused to look at Watson, sound asleep and snoring lightly.

He stood there long enough to feel a chill before he shook himself, shut off the gas, and rushed back to his side of the bed, relishing the thought of curling up again next to Watson’s warm, sleeping form.

As Holmes sat down, he began counting days. He had been sharing Watson’s bed for a fortnight and sharing his body for more than half that time. Not so very long, but Holmes had not spent so many nights with the same man since his college days, and never in such quick succession. Days before Holmes had spared a moment to fret about Watson possibly becoming emotionally entangled, but it had never occurred to him to worry about himself. He had simply assumed that his nature did not lend itself to romanticizing sexual intimacy, but what else could one call staring down at Watson while he slept?

Holmes sighed, disgusted with himself. How dreadfully inconvenient.

Holmes tried to settle next to Watson, who shifted in his sleep, but the comfort seemed to be gone from Watson’s bed. Holmes felt restive, and the longer he stayed, the more his fidgeting seemed to disturb Watson. Holmes knew it would be a mistake to wake Watson while in this state of mind. Watson’s affectionate gestures, which had pleased Holmes, would likely be irritating now that Holmes knew how very _much_ they pleased him. Or perhaps they would drive him from the bed altogether. Much better to make his escape before Watson was conscious.

Holmes pulled himself away from Watson a second time and dressed in the darkness. He crept out of the room and down the stairs, reaching for his overcoat by the door before he remembered that it was still lying in a heap on Watson’s bedroom floor. Watson’s coat was on its hook by the door, and Holmes grabbed it, intending to return home before Watson even noticed that it was missing.

Holmes stalked the streets for a long while with no direction in mind until daylight started to brighten the sky, then turned toward the river. When he reached its banks, he found a perch on a stone bulkhead and pulled up his feet, looking out over the water.

He spent his time examining the behaviour of others and never used his powers of observation to consider his own motivations. It seemed perfectly obvious now. Even before their relations had progressed into the sexual realm, he had relished the feeling of being close to Watson’s body, making him laugh with ridiculous old cases, and he had gone after Watson’s missing overcoat like a knight on a quest.

His behaviour, night after night dismissing Watson with varying degrees of rudeness, was like that of a spoiled young woman testing a suitor. And truly, his inane scheme with the coal—it was all so needlessly complex. His need to turn his pursuit of Watson into an elaborate game more than hinted at feelings he did not like to recognise in himself. Yet he had suspected nothing.

The air was cool enough that Holmes’ exposed skin felt chilled now that he was still. He turned the coat collar up and plunged his hands into Watson’s deep pockets. His right hand struck something hard. Holmes grasped it and pulled it out. It was a small, leather-bound journal. Holmes hesitated, knowing Watson would not appreciate the invasion of privacy, but found there was no resisting.

The first few pages contained columns of figures—evidence of Watson’s fiscal worries. Then there were a few sheets filled with Watson’s tidy script. Holmes scanned them and was pleased to discover that they were notes about the case they had just solved. It was gratifying to learn that Watson was taking his impromptu detective apprenticeship so seriously.

Then Holmes turned past several blank pages and was astounded to find prose. Watson had written some kind of story. Again Holmes hesitated, but there seemed no point to stopping now.

The tale recounted how they met and started collaborating on the case. It was fairly well written and certainly entertaining, but it was complete rubbish. It was far from a true picture of what had actually occurred. Gone were Watson’s intelligent questions when they first met in the hospital laboratory. Watson’s treatment of the injuries Holmes received while retrieving the missing overcoat met the same fate, and Lestrade was given credit for finding the bloody letters at the murder scene.

At best, Watson diminished his own role, and there were times when the story did more than that, making Watson seem downright obtuse. Nowhere did Watson show himself to be as he truly was. Holmes could see what Watson had done: he had used himself as a foil to make Holmes seem more remarkable, but Holmes was not at all certain that he liked it, even as a literary device. For one thing, Holmes was sure his abilities were impressive enough without a lesser partner as a contrast, and for another, Holmes did not at all care for Watson’s portraying himself in so unflattering a manner.

He began again and on the second reading saw the details of the story in a different light. There were portions of the text that poked fun at Holmes’ eccentricities, but it was done gently, with such warm affection that no reader could fail to understand the extent of Watson’s regard. He had portrayed Holmes in a much more positive light than he deserved. Time and time again, Watson reduced his own role in their relationship and exaggerated Holmes’ abilities, leaving out certain details that would have made his conclusions more obvious to the reader. At one point the narrative rambled on for three full pages, expressing Watson’s great amazement at Holmes’ deductive powers.

A man passed by on his way to work on the wharf downstream. He cast a suspicious look in Holmes’ direction, and only then did Holmes realise that he was grinning foolishly. _I must look quite mad_ , he thought, but he was elated. If he had fallen into the trap of such tender emotions, it was immeasurably comforting to know that Watson had been ensnared as well.

He could not help himself—he began to read yet again to confirm his theory. Indeed, it was obvious: throughout the entire unfinished tale, Holmes could see the clear desire to communicate to the reader how very marvelous Watson believed Holmes to be. It was embarrassing. It was wonderful. Holmes closed the book and held it in both hands. It was the closest thing to a love letter that Holmes would ever have been able to tolerate.

A nearby church bell tolled. Holmes was late for his appointment with Lestrade. He tucked the journal into his pocket. That morning, when he had realised his weakness where Watson was concerned, he had assumed that something would have to happen—something would have to change now that he understood the situation. However, after due consideration, he was not so certain.

What needed to be done? Watson’s story would certainly require extensive redaction should he ever care to publish it—Holmes was more than willing to step in and remove anything not fit for the public eye. But otherwise, could they not continue as before? Watson had shown no interest in delving into maudlin discussions or heartfelt declarations, so there was no reason whatsoever for Holmes to initiate anything of the sort. Some things were better left unsaid.

Holmes began to run, his heart pounding. He would meet Lestrade as planned, for he must be paid, but then he would go home to Watson.

*****

Watson woke up alone. It left him feeling somewhat disconcerted. He had become accustomed to the partly pleasant, partly awkward experience of waking up next to Holmes, their legs intertwined. Watson stretched out into the vacant space in the bed, flexing his achy knee.

As he turned to look at the clock, he remembered Holmes’ promise to return to the police station in the morning, which made him feel better about Holmes’ absence. Not that he had been truly bothered. It was perhaps a bit surprising to have Holmes gone after the intimacies of the night before, but Watson could have a day without him.

It was still early yet, so Watson rolled over, hoping to steal a bit more sleep, but his eyes wandered about, noticing how Holmes’ mess had begun to creep into the formerly tidy bedroom. The top of the dresser was littered with the detritus of his pockets, and his discarded clothing was strewn over the carpet. Watson decided this did not truly bother him either, but he rose from the bed to at least pick up his own clothes.

His jacket and trousers were there, but his shirt and waistcoat were nowhere to be found. He searched and found the shirt Holmes had been wearing the evening before, as well as his cravat. Holmes must have taken Watson’s things when he went out. Watson sighed. It was most likely accidental—Holmes must have dressed in the dark, but he so careless about matters like this.

Once he was dressed, Watson made his way down to the kitchen to find himself something to eat. He put the kettle on and, as he waited for the water to heat, noticed how very quiet the house was. It was unnerving. Watson realised that the only thing that had been giving his days any structure was tagging along after Holmes. Before, his time had been shapeless, with no responsibilities and no real pleasures. The idea of sitting there in the silent house, waiting for Holmes to return, made Watson cringe.

As soon as he swallowed his breakfast, Watson headed for the front door. There was very little cash in the house, but Holmes would most likely receive his fee for the case that morning, and going to see Mr. Simpson to arrange for a delivery of coal would give Watson something to do.

In the entry Watson looked for his overcoat, but it was not on the hook where he had left it the night before. He remembered seeing Holmes’ coat on the bedroom floor and shook his head. Holmes must have taken Watson’s coat when he left.

Watson pushed away a prickle of annoyance. After all, he would have lost his overcoat weeks ago if Holmes had not gone and tracked it down for him. Watson wrapped a scarf around his neck and opened the door. It was not a terribly cold day, and a brisk walk would do him good.

Mr. Simpson’s tiny office was empty when Watson arrived, but a bad-tempered clerk emerged from an inner room upon hearing the door. He frowned at Watson, brushing crumbs off his shirtfront. Obviously Watson’s inquiry had interrupted the man’s breakfast. The clerk gave Watson a baleful look but pulled out a large ledger and found the records for Baker Street.

“You’ve just had a delivery,” the man said. “You don’t mean to say you’ve gone through all that already?”

Watson paused. Had Holmes already been here this morning? “When was the delivery? Today?”

The clerk looked at Watson from under furrowed brows. With a sigh he looked at the page again. “Not even three weeks ago. The twenty-ninth.”

Watson suddenly remembered the morning in question, Simpson’s porter singing in the alley and rattling Watson’s gin-sodden brain. There was no way the house could have burned through that supply of coal in such a short time. Watson felt hot, redness spreading over his face. He stammered an apology to the clerk and rushed out to the street. He did not want to jump to conclusions. Perhaps there was some kind of misunderstanding. He returned home as quickly as he was able and immediately went to examine the coal shed in the alley.

The coal lay knee-deep in the shed. A feeling of intense humiliation made Watson flush again. Anger soon followed. His mind raced.

_He deliberately deceived me_ , Watson thought. He remembered Holmes coming into his bedroom, proposing a solution to their financial problems, waving away Watson’s concerns about being unable to repay him. _‘Perhaps not in legal tender,’_ Holmes had said, _‘but with your services.’_ He had been wearing that infernal smile of his. Now Watson understood the nature of the services Holmes had been imagining.

_It was all a plan contrived just to make me look foolish. Preying on my worries, my guilt about the money, just so he could take advantage of me. And what was it he wanted? To see how far he could lead me? Whether he could turn me into his whore? His catamite?_

The very words made Watson feel sick. He slammed the door of the shed and stalked into the house, stomping up both flights of stairs to his bedroom. One of Holmes’ hats had been left on the chair in the corner. Watson picked it up and swept his arm across the chest of drawers, pushing all of Holmes’ rubbish into the bowl of its crown.

_Pretending to want me to help him. Like a pet he could train for his amusement. He thinks himself so superior. He was mocking me._

Watson bent and gathered up all of Holmes’ clothes and carried the whole lot across the landing, dumping it all on the floor in Holmes’ room. As he turned to leave, his eye caught one of his waistcoats hanging crookedly over the back of a chair. _And he’s stealing my clothes!_

Grabbing the offending item, Watson gave a tug, but it caught on the chair and ripped. He yanked it until it came loose, not caring when he heard the fabric tear again, then returned to his own room. Holmes’ blanket was still on the bed, so he snatched it up, wadded it into an untidy parcel, and threw it across the hall.

_Why? Why did he do it? Did he want to mark his territory? Was he simply bored? No interesting cases to stimulate his great intellect? He was thoughtless. No, he thought too much—he was heartless. Selfish._

As soon as the word came to mind, Watson realised it could not be fairly applied to Holmes. Holmes was not completely selfish. In fact he was a remarkably considerate lover. Watson blushed to think of it. Holmes had been more than generous, never taking his own pleasure until Watson was sated.

Perhaps Watson had no reason to complain. If one looked at it in a certain light, it could even be flattering that Holmes had planned such a silly ruse for the sole purpose of seducing Watson. _I didn’t precisely offer the man much of a challenge_ , he chided himself.

Indeed, Watson was embarrassed—he had been so gullible. He remembered the feeling of humiliation that had swept over him in Simpson’s office, and his ire surged up once again. Perhaps he should leave. He could pack up his things, quit the house, and never have to see Holmes again. The idea was tempting, but Watson thought he might never forgive himself if he ran away in shame.

He wanted to confront Holmes, challenge him. But truly, what could he say? Holmes was far more clever than he was and very slippery. No, Watson could never win any kind of argument against Holmes. Maybe it would be better not to say anything. Holmes bragged about his ability to deduce a man’s thoughts from his actions—let him infer what he might from Watson’s behaviour.

*****

Watson usually looked up, expectant and smiling, when Holmes walked in the sitting room door, but not on this particular evening. He was slouched low in his chair, his injured leg stretched out to the warmth of the fire. A rather _large_ fire, Holmes noted. A stab of guilt made him pause, but he pretended not to notice the roaring blaze.

“I had to run off early and meet Lestrade,” Holmes said as he shrugged off Watson’s overcoat and flung it onto an armchair. “I thought it would only be a matter of a few minutes, but I was caught up there all day, unable to—”

“And you went to see Mr. Simpson,” Watson interrupted. His voice was cold.

Holmes stopped in his tracks. He forced himself to speak. “I beg your pardon?”

“You must have gone to speak to Simpson. There’s coal. Piles of it. I saw it in the shed this morning.” There was anger brewing just beneath the surface of Watson’s every word. “I had a boy running up and down the stairs all afternoon bringing it in,” Watson continued. “So we’ll sleep warm tonight.”

Holmes hovered in the middle of the room.

“Good night then,” Watson said. He had not so much as looked up from his brooding posture.

There was a long moment when everything turned odd: a carriage clattered by on the street—the noise seemed much too loud, and Holmes felt almost dizzy. He turned, left the room, and climbed the stairs slowly. He could not remember ever experiencing such confusion. His mind was trained to logic and order, but there was no logical course of action dictated by the events of the last few moments. Watson had discovered his prank and then dismissed him summarily: the cause and effect were clear, but Holmes could not see what might come next.

The floor of his bedroom was littered with his things. Watson must have carried them over. No, he threw them, Holmes decided, seeing the way the blanket hung half off the edge of the bed. He took the blanket and spread it carefully over his bed, wishing it were possible to return everything to its proper order so easily. He sank onto the bed and mentally composed a dozen explanations for his behaviour before he heard Watson coming up the steps.

When the door opened, there stood Watson, his brows crowded together and his eyes dark. Holmes held his breath.

“Why all of this foolishness?” Watson asked. “Why did you not simply ask me to come to your bed?”

Holmes was careful when he spoke. He did not want his tone to be challenging, so he kept his voice very quiet. “And what would you have done if I had?”

There was no answer.

“It was a gamble, I admit, but—” Holmes stopped when he saw Watson’s expression. Perhaps it was unwise to allude to Watson’s weakness when he was so very angry, but Holmes had done it purposefully, certain that Watson would understand that there are times when one absolutely must take a chance.

“Watson, please understand. When I began it was only a bit of fun, but by the time I understood—” Holmes broke off a second time, realising this was not the proper moment for a declaration. Holmes studied his hands. “Suffice it to say, the stakes had become rather high, and I had no wish to risk what ground I had gained with you by telling you it had all started on a whim, a game.”

Holmes waited, heart pounding, until he began to despair of Watson relenting. He wanted to beg, to offer a thousand abject apologies, but found he could not utter a word. When he could bear the silence no longer, he looked up, willing Watson to speak.

Watson crossed the room in two long strides, kicking the pile of clothes out of his way. He reached out, twisted his fists in Holmes’ shirt, and pulled him up off the bed. Holmes let out a small yelp, certain that Watson was going to strike him. Watson loosened his grip but did not let go, pulling Holmes close for a rough kiss.

Holmes neither resisted nor made any move to help when Watson began to peel off his clothes. Then Watson shoved him down onto the bed and fell to his knees, bending to take Holmes’ cock into his mouth. He was not careful and he did not take his time, sucking forcefully, using both hands to hold Holmes’ hips flat against the bed.

Watson was wilder than Holmes had ever seen him, but his passion came from anger, not attraction, affection, or even lust. Holmes did not like it but could not stop his body from reacting. Watson’s tongue pulled at the head of Holmes’ cock, irresistible. In only a few moments Holmes was close, very close. He made an incoherent noise of protest when Watson lifted his head.

“All in good time,” Watson said quietly.

Holmes immediately realised what Watson was doing, deliberately repeating the exact acts from the night before. Holmes longed for the more playful lovemaking that had seemed to evolve so naturally between them, but nothing would make him turn Watson away. Holmes nodded, accepting this turnabout, but Watson abruptly stood, and when Holmes looked up he was startled at the violence of emotion on Watson’s face.

“Watson—”

“Why do you nod at me? It is not your place to allow or forbid me to—”

“I never—”

“You do,” Watson insisted. “I know your intellect is vastly superior to mine, but—”

“Watson, please.” Was this truly what Watson thought of him? A domineering, petty man, wanting to lord over dear Watson, even in the bedroom? “Please.”

Holmes took Watson’s hand, pulled him down, and kissed him. He attempted to infuse the kiss with all the depth of his feeling, but how to communicate so much with such a gesture? Holmes had no experience by which to measure his success. When he pulled away, he looked at Watson and again murmured, “Please.”

Watson’s resistance was palpable. When he stood again, fear goaded Holmes to speak again. “The bottle is still in my pocket.”

They stared at one another for several long moments before Watson went to find Holmes’ trousers and retrieved the small, thick glass bottle. He stared at it, and Holmes noticed that his hands shook.

“Do you have any idea how maddening it is?” Watson’s voice turned sneering. “Your brilliance and your immeasurable experience. Even in matters such as this.” He set the bottle down on the bedside table with enough force that Holmes feared it would break and cringed. Watson stepped close again and towered over Holmes. “Can you imagine how it is for me? To always have to defer to your infinite knowledge?”

Watson’s sarcasm stung, even tempered with the understanding that he had been dwelling on his injured feelings since morning. Holmes worked to steady himself.

“Although my behaviour does not show it, I have nothing but the highest esteem for you and in no way believe myself to be your superior. You are—” Holmes’ voice broke, and he stopped, shocked at himself. He waited until he could modulate his tone before he tried again. “I am grateful for your forbearance, and…” He could not continue.

The room was silent while Watson only glared. It was agony. Holmes felt so very exposed.

Finally Watson sat on the edge of the bed and allowed Holmes to pull him close. A tentative kiss relaxed Watson’s ramrod-straight posture, and in a moment he was returning Holmes’ embrace with his familiar gentle strength. The angry passion had faded.

Holmes reached out to pick up the bottle from the table and put it carefully in Watson’s hand. Watson kissed him again, sliding his mouth over Holmes’ jaw and throat. Holmes pulled at Watson’s buttons ineffectually until Watson moved to quickly shed his clothes. He crawled onto the bed and knelt over Holmes, hesitating.

Holmes took the small bottle and poured some of its contents into one hand. He spread the oil on Watson’s cock, stroking slowly until Watson was panting. Then Holmes fell back onto the bed, pulling Watson with him. He could feel Watson’s erection, slick against his hip, and it made him impatient.

“Watson, please.”

After a quick nod, Watson found the bottle in the sheets and opened it, coating his fingers, but he went no further. Holmes felt uncertain as well. Some instruction might alleviate Watson’s concerns, but Holmes was all too conscious that he must not offend by ordering Watson about.

Holmes pulled Watson close for a kiss, then whispered into his ear. “Do you remember how it felt when I touched you last night? When I was inside of you?”

Watson nodded against the side of Holmes head, and his arm tightened around Holmes’ body.

“You can give me that same pleasure,” Holmes said, guiding Watson’s hand. “You will not hurt me.”

Watson’s touch was firm but gentle as he prepared Holmes’ body. Holmes watched Watson’s face, to make certain he was no longer frowning, but soon could not keep his eyes open. He let them fall closed and moved his hips, pushing back against Watson’s hand until he was gasping.

“Please,” Holmes breathed. “Please, Watson. Now.”

Watson knelt between Holmes’ legs. He moved cautiously, taking great care. His hands were slick from the oil, which made him fumble for a moment, but then Holmes felt the tip of Watson’s cock pushing against him. Holmes had only to tilt his hips slightly to help Watson along.

Then finally, finally Watson slid inside, still moving carefully, and for now Holmes was content to go slowly. He savored the feeling as Watson’s cock stretched and filled him, igniting every nerve. Watson moaned and froze. Holmes looked up. Watson was biting his bottom lip, and his eyes were clenched shut.

Holmes did not want Watson to be cautious and slow. His first time like this—he should not have to worry so, should not have to think of anything other than his own pleasure. Holmes purposefully clenched his muscles, grasping Watson’s cock with his body. Watson cried out, and his hips slammed forward several times.

“Yes!” Holmes shouted. He wrapped his legs around Watson’s waist and again tightened the flesh surrounding Watson’s cock. Watson lost all of his careful control. He moved wildly, and Holmes arched his back, meeting every thrust.

Watson fell on Holmes, grabbing his head with both hands and kissing him. With every movement of Watson’s hips, the taut muscles of his stomach rubbed over Holmes’ cock. Watson’s tongue pushed into Holmes’ mouth, matching the driving rhythm of his body, and Holmes came, moaning, waves of sensation—from Watson’s cock inside of him, from his own cock pressed between their bellies—spreading through every inch of his body. Watson followed a moment later, holding Holmes tightly and crying out in his pleasure before he collapsed, exhausted.

Holmes slid his hands up Watson’s back to tangle in his hair and planted a kiss behind his ear.

“Holmes?”

A sleepy hum was the only response Holmes could manage.

“Holmes, look at me.” Watson pushed up off the bed, ignoring Holmes’ hands, which tried to keep him pressed close. “Open your eyes.”

Holmes obeyed.

“No more tricks,” Watson ordered. “No more lying. Not to me.”

Holmes nodded without hesitation.

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes, my dear, a promise,” Holmes murmured, pulling Watson back down onto the bed.

Sleep claimed Watson quickly, but Holmes struggled against it, wanting to relish the pleasant lethargy he felt and the warm comfort of Watson’s arms. It was a relief to feel so lazy and tranquil. But some corner of Holmes’ mind must have been still active, and he suddenly remembered something that could not wait.

“Watson!”

Watson woke with a start. He blinked at Holmes and mumbled a few unintelligible syllables.

“Watson, wake up. I must tell you about the cigarettes.”

“Cigarettes? Holmes—”

“I knew that you could not afford to buy them yourself, and I suspected that if I simply offered to share you would refuse. I told you I didn’t care for them so you would not deny yourself—”

“Holmes!”

Holmes was silent for a moment. He wracked his brain for any other small falsehoods or omissions that could possibly upset Watson, were he ever to discover them.

“Holmes.” Watson’s tone was more gentle this time.

“I don’t mean to be deceitful, but there are times when, as a means to an end…” Holmes trailed off as he finally mustered the courage to look up and found Watson smiling down at him. It was then that Holmes knew without question that he was forgiven.

Watson placed a tender kiss on Holmes lips. Without another word, he settled himself comfortably, fitting their bodies together. Holmes pulled Watson’s head onto his shoulder, happier than he deserved, and they slept soundly until morning.

The End


End file.
